


The World at his Feet

by musicjunkie



Category: Blur, Britpop - Fandom, Oasis - Fandom
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mild Language, football au, lots of swearing ofc, mid 90's, out of context
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24073798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicjunkie/pseuds/musicjunkie
Summary: Get his team to win the coming Euro, cope with a controversial coach, trying to pick the pieces of his failing relationships, and resist the charms of a new teammate... No doubt, the Summer of 1995 will be a busy one for Damon Albarn.
Relationships: Liam Gallagher/Damon Albarn
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	1. On a Blue Monday

**Author's Note:**

> It's the first time I write a fanfic in English, involving real people, and post in on the Internet. I'm MORTIFIED by what I'm doing so please be kind.  
> These pictures I believe the whole Britpop fandom has stumbled upon at least once are what got me into writing this crap instead of... Working on my thesis...  
> You guys were horny for footballer Damon, right? Well then, have fun.

His appointment was due at ten o'clock at the Football Association headquarters, so Albarn woke up at six. Actually, he only slept for four hours. He hated acknowledging all the stress he has been put under, but it's not like he could deny it anymore. No meet-up he ever had with the president could be potentially this impactful for his career. He gave a quick glance at his calendar, proudly standing above his girlfriend’s perfectly arranged desk. June 10th, 1995. The next Euro is exactly one year away.

The late eighties were the darkest era of English football, tainted by hooliganism and deadly incidents. Local teams were barred from entering any European competition. Thankfully, the sky was finally brightening up a bit. Premier League had been inaugurated in 1990, with much success, and English clubs were seen trusting the heights of the Champions League again. Surprisingly, International tournaments remained a source of disappointment, whether if it was for that fourth place, the worst of all, at the 1990 World Cup or for that humiliating Euro 92. Only one goal in four games! The selection needed a whole shakedown. The oldest figures retired, leaving space for an emerging generation of players. Among them, Albarn was the potential new superstar.

The sharp-witted Essex native wasn't exactly among the youngest ones, as he had just turned twenty-seven. Time for guys of his age had finally come. It was now or never. Analysts often claimed the « Golden duo » he formed during the 1993-1994 season with his childhood teammate Graham Coxon on the midfield's sides gave West Ham their third place at the FA Cup. Albarn was an incisive striker, capable of the worst and the very best in the same game; Coxon was technical, attracting the ball nearly magnetically. Polar opposites often make up the best combinations. A few days later, Albarn received an offer from his all-time favorite team, Chelsea. There, he kept his impressive records, while making close friends with his wingman Rowntree. A bunch of devilish Italians might have knocked them out of the Champions League, it didn’t stop them from claiming the FA Cup with no resistance from their rivals.

Golden Guy, Greyhound, those were the nicknames given to the snarky blonde throughout the media. As long as the attention was on him, he embraced all of those. Therefore, there was no way he would not make it to the squad for the coming Euro, right? Just like a mantra, he replayed tirelessly this affirmation in his head, while struggling with closing his lids. His perpetually restless right leg kept giving kicks under his blanket, he had an irrepressible desire to bite every single of his nails until they bled, and he could eat nothing for supper, but he swore to God, he wasn't stressed out at all.

This intense fear of not being worth a national selection came from one of his recent observations: in the codified universe of professional football, Albarn was the odd one out. He admitted himself being a terrific driver: as a result, he would come to training camps by his 1962 Vespa motorbike, while his teammates drove their luxurious Ferraris. Albarn was never spotted without a colorful pearl necklace, where his rivals sported golden jewelry instead. His friends were engaged to sexy models, singers, actresses; Damon had been dating Justine, a tomboyish architect, for nearly four years. They didn't want to be engaged, neither she wanted kids: they were solely focused on their personal careers, giving each other a nesting place when they needed. Sure, sometimes, he felt somehow out of the place. Most of the time though, he considered his oddities as a blessing. Standing out is the preference of the self-professed attention whore, isn't it?

Damon didn't feel like taking the Tube today, he didn't want to turn up late. As a result, he picked up his beloved motorbike. On the way, his grey blazer got stained by car smoke. Screw it, he muttered. A quick glance at his watch: half-past nine, still early. He can fix his dirty jacket situation peacefully. It would be a shame to give a neglected impression, right? Not like he cared much about his looks. He's nothing like Anderson, that striker from Tottenham, who constantly arranges his hair, even in the game's crucial moments. Ugh, Brett. Albarn doesn't care much for opponent teams' players, unless they're Brett Anderson. Plus he's Justine's ex-boyfriend, for that matter, and she's far from having hard feelings about him. Maybe that's why he despises him so much. Well, there's this, and his mannerisms. A new breed of supporters, vastly feminine, were hooked on football thanks to his presence, fancying his looks and elegance, inherited from two years in Barcelona. These damn Catalonians and their obsession for Total Football... Damon was a proponent of a more instinctive insight into his playing style. Chemistry, trust, see these kinds of aspects... Once Albarn gets into the stadium, he's a whole other person, who puts the group's interests over his for once. To his regret, this spontaneous perception of football was slowly starting to fade. Everyone these days is getting into technicality, quick-paced passes, defensive formations... He doesn't get the point. In the end, isn't football all about having fun? If fans wanted to see flawless tactics, they would get into chess, right? Damon wasn’t aware yet, but there was another member of the national team who agreed with him, at least on that point: Liam Gallagher.

Liam Gallagher was this typical working-class bloke who owed his social elevation to football. Up-and-coming star of his local team, Manchester United, forward-center, gorgeous second top, although no one discusses his striker position in his current squad. Only been here for two years, yet fans can't remember anymore how the team was like before his debut. The number 11 jersey had the best sales during the past year. He loved his black Lamborghini, his brand-new Rolex, and pushing his brother (and teammate) Noel over the edge with his crazy spending habits. He had a model wife who expected a kid from him; they had a big house in the country, near his native city. Liam was kind of impulsive; another common point with Damon. This impulsivity for the northern guy would usually manifest itself on the field, resulting in quite a few suspensions; outside, his fondness for cocaine wasn't a secret for his loved ones. He knew perfectly how to trick the police and anti-doping instances into thinking he's clean, and fucking hell, that was his favorite thing ever.   
Street's appointment, however, still caused him great worry. It's not like he can keep his addiction secret forever. The higher-ups would be informed eventually. Or maybe this meet-up was solely about the Euro. Who knows?

Liam's meeting was scheduled at 9 AM. The night before, he slept at his friend's in Islington. Sleeping, though, is quite of a stretch, at best, he took a nap around six o'clock, after the last nightclub closed. His droopy blue eyes were circled of purple. Street didn't notice, though. It's not like his appearance was any more pleasant, with his fat belly, his patchy hair on a receding hairline. Fucking shit, to think that fella once used to be one of the greatest players in the world... Liam was terrified of the appointment, but without a doubt, the fear of aging so terribly was even worse. He was offered a seat in a black chair, whose fake leather seat made nerve-wrenching sounds whenever he moved any part of his body. Sighs. That shit's gonna be long. Not even a single greeting. Street put on his glasses and fixed the Mancunian from over the frame. Hard for Liam to not laugh.

« Mr. Gallagher, it's with great honor that we have officially selected you to be a part of the English squad for the 1996 UEFA European Championships. Congratulations. »

That's it? They made him come all the way from Manchester for that crappy meeting? They could've just sent a letter, or even call him... Yeah, of course, this was fantastic news. World Cup, impressive stuff, every player's dream. But wasn't this a bit too much?

« Of course, Liam, well, while you are here, we need to have a certain conversation... We bet you know already what it is about... »

Another sigh. The rumors were alive and well. With these tabloid vultures who might hack famous people's phones, they had to talk about it in person. That whole meeting was nothing more than a trap.

« If the association is informed that you keep on using cocaine, you will be cut off and replaced. That's how it is. We can't afford to take the risk, and I believe you can't either. »

What was that? An ultimatum? Liam was pissed off. He needs to leave as quickly as possible before he punches Street's hideous face. The old fart would never acknowledge it publicly, obviously, it's not for his health that they want him to sober up, protecting the team's image is the whole point. Thankfully, the president shows him the door before he can do anything.

« Fuck that shit! »

Hoping no one heard him growling, he gets into the first bathroom stall he can find. How many beers did he drink last night? Twelve? It feels like he's spending his time at the loo today.  
In the silent, cold white room, he isn't alone. There's this blonde dude with his pointy nose trying to remove something out of his jacket. Oh, right, Albarn, the Chelsea star. He played against him several times, but never met him in civil attire. Looks quite different. He never noticed his gigantic puppy eyes before, they were always hidden behind a sweaty fringe, or a playful grin. It's really not fair to be this attractive while you're annoyed. Attractive? Damn, Liam really needed some rest. As he was walking towards the urinals, the blonde grabbed his shoulder.

« Excuse me, who are you? »

Liam didn't remember him being this tall either. He tries to hide his embarrassment :

« Why are you asking me this? »

« Well, I don't know, we might be teammates from now on, duh! »

His tone was nowhere near welcoming, at best, he was treating him like a fucking moron. L was boiling from the inside. He'd better shut up right now, or else he will smash his head against the porcelain sink... How aesthetically pleasing it would be! That's what he does to posh twats, sometimes, in his hometown's restrooms. Then remembering the conversation he had with Street a few minutes prior, he just ignored the blonde guy, went for the first urinal he noticed, sometimes checking on his direction. A few seconds after, as Liam was finishing his business, Damon left the restroom, muttering an astonishing number of swear words in a span of one minute. Hell, that bloke has a quick temper... Liam then yelled :

« I'm Liam fucking Gallagher, and you ain't ever gonna forget about me! »

Thankfully for his reputation, the building was deserted on that morning. History doesn't tell if Damon Albarn heard him screaming from upstairs.

Yep, no one should cross ways with Damon Albarn today. He's about to explode, and he doesn't even get why. For someone who's usually neither stressed or pressed over anything... Deep inside, it's like he was getting ready for Street's news.

« Nice to meet you Mr. Albarn. Come on, take a seat! We've got much to discuss today... »

Damon picks up the first chair, sits nonchalantly on it, legs wide open as usual. Street begins with some official blabbering no one gives a damn about. Yeah, thank you, thanks, oh, please Lord, have mercy on our poor damned souls, speed up, we don't care, really, nobody cares.

« So, about the coming UEFA European Championships... »

Ah, finally ! He arches his body towards the desk, his head resting on his hands, trying to stop his right leg from shaking.

« I have the regret to inform you that Cocker's knee injury hasn't healed yet. »

Fine. How's that any of his concern? Nothing against Cocker naturally, he loves playing against Sheffield solely because he's there. The veteran is incredibly fast, as we would expect from someone with such ridiculously long legs. If you want to trick him, you have to strike tirelessly. Don't ever let the ball out of your part of the field, or else, he's gonna steal it at the speed of light. A true delight for the eternally restless Damon Albarn.

« You played a key role in every match you played under the national jersey so far, that's undeniable, even though you were only selected five times in the elite team... You are undeniably becoming a figure of the new, rebranded English squad... That's why the Football Association has the honor to appoint you as the new squad captain. »

His heart dashed the 100 meters race as his jaw dropped. Captain, him, already? That's unseen before. Then again, anything is possible for guys of his generation nowadays, moreover, it's an opportunity one can encounter only once in a lifetime. Yeah, he won't overthink his answer...

« Mr. Street, I am very proud to be your new captain. I'll do my best to make our country shine! »

Take this, Anderson!

**

Damon has always been extremely confident. Since his appointment as the new captain, he became a full-blown narcissist. Chelsea had this game against Everton where he accidentally knocked one of their midfielders down, and he didn't see where the issue was, even after all the explanations from the referee. Albarn is rarely seen discussing with them, regardless of the outcome. He just accepts his fate and moves on. However, on that night, there was no way he, Damon Albarn, could have made such a mistake. He's never failed a tackle!

The impact on his private life was no less disastrous. For her job, Justine regularly had to move throughout the country. An office in Leeds would ring her and here she goes, on the first train with her suitcase. As a result, they didn’t see each other that much. However, after this victory, they had two days of leisure ahead, only for themselves, which they seized to go to Brighton together. Here comes the problem: poor Justine had not even opened her mouth that her boyfriend had already interrupted her, generally to boast about his recent achievements. The two longest days of her life. For the first time in half a decade, she started wondering if dating Damon hadn't been the worst decision of her life. After they returned to their flat on Sunday evening, she joined her colleagues in Coventry on the next morning, without telling her boyfriend, or leaving a note. That's where he realized something was wrong. 

« So, Justine is mad at you? »

Good old Jamie, always there to pinpoint what's wrong. Graham had been selected as well, which meant someone else had to take care of his cat. The reporter was the only one available who didn't have a fur allergy.

« What tells you she's ''mad'' ? », he responded, his fingers drawing inverted commas. The reporter was, as usual, blowing the facts out of proportion like the good old media vulture he is. It was really insane to think that a footballer and a sports journalist were besties. Jamie wasn't really into gossiping, or precise technical analysis. Photography was his specialty. Few people in the world could take such quality pictures of footballers while they're running. Jamie did that effortlessly. The walls of his Notting Hill studio were upholstered with his prettiest takes like a real museum.

« Well, c'mon. She's always prepared. Leaving like that, y'know... It's not her type. Not even leaving a note... It's like the least Justine thing ever. »

Damon scoffed. He came here for his cat, not to get a therapy session. He retorted, visibly mocking Jamie's hypothesis :

« You think they switched up my girl with her maleficent twin? »

Thank god Jamie had already finished drinking his beer, or else he would have choked on it. He might be stubborn, he's absolutely hilarious when he intends to.

« Good one, mate! »

Already the third beer for Damon. A glass of water for a person with an average alcohol tolerance. He can drink four Pernods in three hours and still remember his way home, he's unbeatable. Jamie is equally unbeatable for bringing Damon at admitting his wrongdoings :

« Kidding aside, what did you guys do in Brighton? You guys spoke a little, right? »

Suddenly, his mind goes blank. His girlfriend and he barely had any conversations together... Well. He gushed on his promotion, bragged about his recent wins... But Justine, what is she up to?

« I don't know. She didn't speak much. »

« She didn't speak much, or you talked too much? »

Jamie seems to read the situation perfectly, leaving Damon slightly embarrassed. In a such situation, the only correct response is protection. He'll pretend to not get what it's all about. The Clueless Idiot Game always works :

« What do you mean? »

« Damo, c'mon. You don't see the issue there? »

« There's an issue? »

Just a normal interview with a whimsical celebrity, admits Jamie to himself. A celebrity he knows goddamn well, though.

« For example, did you ask me how I'm doing when you got there? »

The blonde pretends to trace back his memories, although he is already aware of the answer.

« Hmmm... Not that I remember... »

« See? »

The constantly overhyped blonde slammed his bottle on the table, spilling beer all over it. How can such a clumsy person be such a talented sportsman at the same time? Jamie doesn't feel like laughing either. He raises sharply his tone, his eyebrows get slanted, Here he is, the Mad Damon.

« So. I'm an egocentric motherfucker, that's what you mean? »

« I would've worded it differently, but you get the point, yeah. »

  
The angelic blonde left his seat and the room altogether. It's not the right timing to dive into such debate, he has too much shit to worry about, asking himself if he's being a person worth looking up to or not isn't part of the picture. Fuck's sake, officials are counting on him to make his team win the Euro!

« Right. You can keep the cat and fuck off, I have no more time for this bullshit. Bye-bye Jamie. »

On the way, Damon unsealed a bottle of beer. Instead of a greeting, he gave Jamie his middle finger. Jamie is used to his friend's quick temper at this point. Rarely he's been so defensive, though. Even the black furry beast, curling over his caretaker's shoulder, seems to judge his owner.

« Damo! For fuck's sake, don't be such an arsehole! »

**

Graham picked up Damon in front of his apartment at three o'clock, just as planned. He couldn't picture himself driving 500 miles with his motorbike and his suitcase, especially during summer, because he has to wear his biking gear, and that crap is flaming hot. His friend owns a very rare retro car, he's not into luxury brands either. Graham is into anything retro in general. And striped shirts. And shoes. He owns twenty-five different pairs of stud shoes. What saddens him the most about the training camp is that he can't fit them all in his luggage.

On the road, Damon practiced Jamie's advice, wondered how his old mate was doing. Probably not his best choice of target... The shy brunette is secretive. They've been close for nearly fifteen years. As a teen, he wouldn't even disclose the name of his crushes under torture... Not like they ever tortured him, it was just stupid pranks. Nonetheless, he was almost sealed, and it required lots of patience to make him open up, a quality that Damon admittedly didn't have.

« Gra, d'you remember when we got into the teachers' room and stole their whiskey? »

« I'd rather forget about that, it's embarrassing... »

Fine, he doesn't want to talk. Fuck people, for real. When you don't talk to them they're furious, and when you try to engage in a conversation with them, they're still unsatisfied. FUCK. THEM. ALL.

« It would be great if we can room together at the camp... »

Suddenly, the grumpy blonde was enthusiastic again : « You really think I'd pick anyone else? »

Meanwhile, the radio was blasting New Order. It felt like they were fifteen again and ready to conquer the world. Except that this time, it was for real, and they had no other choice.

_« And I still find it so hard_  
_To say what I need to say_  
_But I'm quite sure that you'll tell me_  
_Just how I should feel today »_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, thank you so much for bearing with my disastrous style. Hope I made you chuckle at least once. Chapter 2 is on the way, there will be loads of drama, that's all I can say.


	2. The Moorcombe Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new English squad meet their new coach, the irascible Jim Smith, while Damon struggles with his leader duties and Liam sees his darkest secret revealed.

Lost in Devonshire, Moorcombe School used to be the posh boy's favorite spot from the mid-twenties to the late sixties. A former sanatorium, the green building has been later bought by a socialite, with the intent of turning it into a training center for aspiring players. As the Great Depression forced him to change his plans, Moorcombe went on to become a place of retreat for rich sportspeople of all ages. Then the seventies occurred, and Devon could not beat the newly accessible southern European destinations. It closed down in 1975; the Football Association almost immediately acquired the building. Its vast multisport ground, the inner swimming pool, and large bedrooms made it seem quite luxurious, even though the paint on the facades crumbles. It can also barely be operated on winters due to poor thermal insulation. However, none of the New English Team players were aware of the situation as they walked into the gorgeous hallway, its terracotta floor and Art-Deco porch. The Golden Duo were perfectly on time. They just had to pick a room.

« If you don't mind, I'll pick one from where you can't see the field... » Therefore, Damon only paid attention to the rooms at his right side. Room 7, occupied. Room 9, occupied. Fuck's sake...

« Damo, don't waste more time, there's no empty room by this side... » sighed Graham, pretty concerned by the course of time. A quarter before five, and they still had to get into their jerseys.

« There's one, Gra, I know there's one... »

« Why don't we go upstairs then? » pointed out the brunette after spotting a map of the building. He was surprised to see an indoor swimming pool there, it's more than welcome during summer though. Changing Damon's mind is a pretty difficult task, but it wasn't an issue for his closest friend. They shared a room at the training center for nearly six years. He just knew him better than anyone did. Sadly, this didn't help much with his current moodiness. You just had no idea of what was going on in his head. He's a terrible liar, yet excels at hiding his feelings. Unless he's angry.

After taking the stairs, they got into the third floor. The geometric carpet and earthy tones made it look stuck in the sixties. Albarn felt immediately at home. Then, at his right, a door was wide open. Room 13.

« It's the one, Gra! »

Room 13 was empty. Plus, by the balcony, they had a wonderful sight in the forest nearby. These beds were calling for them.

**

Twenty men lined up on the training camp's field at exactly six o'clock, not knowing what to expect. The Golden Duo arrived late, the last ones to come in. Damon spotted Rowntree in the bunch, while Graham greeted Alex James, a childhood friend of theirs. The latter, who had just returned from one season in Marseille, immediately went on recounting all the crazy stuff that happened to him back there. The duo walked with them into the center, holding their hands on their backs, a position later copied by the entire group, except for the Gallagher siblings.

« C'mon guys, it's not the fucking church here! »

Before Noel could correct his little brother, their coach, whose identity remained a secret until then, emerged out of the locker room.

Jim Smith. A name that was enough to give Albarn & Rowntree shivers. Smith, whose reign of terror over Chelsea ended only a few months before they joined the team roster. Their mates were left traumatized beyond repair. The now-retired Simonon warned Damon a few years ago :

« Y'know, Smith, I'm absolutely certain he can read people's minds. You just think of how much of a bastard he is, and there he comes, yelling at you for five minutes straight... »

The queen hadn't even been crowned yet on the day he played his first game as a professional football player. Most coaches retire around 65 years old, Smith boasted on how he would remain active in football until his very last breath.

« Smith might be old enough for a retirement house, but I'll tell ya, he's not afraid to beat up the shit out of you if you don't listen. The kids at the formation center, all of their nightmares involve him. »

The FA had the image of a young squad, shaped up by experienced figures. Carrying on the legacy of 1966, again. Among the ex-world-champs-turned-trainers, the Hackney native was the only one who hadn't been given a chance to lead the national team yet. And lord, this was an honor he longed for during three whole decades.

His day had finally come. If only he had been allowed to pick the players instead of the association... They feared that the seasoned Londonian would not choose guys that have played for Chelsea's rival teams. Smith genuinely loved his former club, naturally, but he was far from being a complete hooligan. As long as the blokes in Tottenham or Arsenal add something positive to the game, they're fine. Though, in that case, the names provided didn't meet his expectations. He hadn't encounter any single one of them before... A major part of « Coach Jim »'s method lays in the precise observation of his players. Their behavior inside and outside the game, their relationships with their teammates, their abilities, their weaknesses, even the most private parts of their daily routine were scrutinized and noted down in his black Moleskine notebook. If only he knew them beforehand, this round would have gone incredibly faster. 

Albarn felt a shiver going down his spine. It had to be fucking Coach Jim, out of all people! That permanent dizziness he had been experiencing the past few days might've been a sort of premonition... The old man made his way silently to Liam. Suddenly halted. Fixed him in the eyes and started barking in his face :

« Did I ask, William? Shut the fuck up and do it like your lovely teammates! »

Even though he used his full name, and he despised this more than anything else on the planet, Liam wasn't assured enough to correct him. Ugh, who was that, the sergeant in Full Metal Jacket?

« I'm Jim Smith, you guys probably heard my name before. I used to be a coach for Sunderland, Liverpool, and most recently Chelsea. I won the world cup in 1966 as part of the English selection, and that's why I am here! I'll make the greatest team ever out of y'all! Chin up, shut the fuck up and listen to me. If any of you disagrees, he has to make fifteen push-ups in front of everyone. Get it ? »

The squad nodded almost choreographically. Weller checked his notes.

« First, who is Damian Albarn? »

Dude has trouble with names, it seems. Must be his old age. Damon tried hard to not let out a chuckle.

« That's me, mister. »

« Coach. Call me coach. A captain should show the example. Right ? »

« Right, coach... »

Smith moved backward so everyone could see him, then wondered :

« There's only 20 of you out here, where the fuck is the missing one? »

A juvenile black-haired boy raised his voice :

« Anderson had a game against Juventus on this afternoon, he'll be here by tomorrow morning. »

Weller walked past him. You could hear his heavy footsteps against the grass.

« And who are you, punk? »

The pubescent boy tried to save face. His nervosity was hard to hide :

« Butler, defender, I play for Crystal Palace... »

The coach hissed, unsatisfied by the answer :

« Fine, Butler... Tell your best friend that I have a good pair of scissors ready for him. I don't care about your pretty faces, I want a pretty game. Gotcha? The first one I see fixing his hair while playing is getting a homemade cut, and I can promise you, it's gonna look... Terrific. »

Anderson was the only name he recognized on that paper given by the fed. Name, picture, age, specialty, current team, plus eventual notes for the most troublesome cases. Liam Gallagher was circled in black: « watch out for drug issues ». Albarn was simply mentioned to be the captain.

**

The infamous Brett Anderson had anything but the looks of a football star. You could tell at first glance that he was from an affluent background, just by his attitude. Unlike his captain, this behavior wasn't backed by a superiority complex. Brett had just enough confidence, just enough class, and was quite scary on top of that; as a result, even though his manners could appear to be effeminate at times, no one dared to pick a fight against him. Well, no one that isn't Damon Albarn, apparently immune to his flamboyance. Brett Anderson also could boast up about having one of the greatest goal records in Tottenham's history, something Albarn had yet to achieve in his current team. Oddly enough, Anderson didn't seem to care about their rivalry. A time-consuming waste of energy. Or maybe it's simply too easy to make the blonde captain burst in anger : he just had to mention how many orgasms he gave to Justine in a day while they were still together. Damon of course didn't believe him... As incredible as it might sound, those claims weren't exaggerated at all. 

Albarn felt his presence from ten meters away. His penetrating glance doesn't lie. Oh, this glance alone is enough to fuel his rage. The brunette abruptly stopped walking at the sight of the Golden Duo. For someone who had just returned from a plane trip, he looked fresh as ever.

« Boys, the Crow is here ! »

He removed almost theatrically his sunglasses. If Albarn had lasers instead of eyes, this posh bitch would've turned into dust. Let's not even talk about these clothes he probably borrowed from his daddy... Or this nickname, seriously... After a not-so-glorious derby victory, a reporter asked the Chelsea star his opinion on Tottenham, he had no choice but to respond, so the only sentence that came in his mind was « Well, Anderson, he looks like a crow and brings misfortune, like a crow. » The interview made headlines. Now, the media and fans alike were aware of their feud. The worst part until that day was Anderson's lack of reaction. But from then, he fully embraced this nickname, and forgot all the implications behind. Just another stunt. Ugh. This was far from being his only attempt at outraging his rival on that day :

« Albarn... Or should I say now, Captain... I can't wait to see how far you're going to take us. »

His expression was just so strange, neither a wink nor a grin. For sure, he looked forward to a challenge. Coxon didn't interpret it that way, but well, he is so sweet and easily fooled. Watching from the field, the Gallaghers had a hard time believing what they were witnessing.

« That's a football squad or a gay club? »

« Shut the fuck up, Noel. Gays aren't cunts like 'em... »

The duo returned to their warm-up exercises without a word. Smith was still monitoring the bratty pack, completely worn out. He had observed them in so much detail since their first warm-up yesterday, there's no way these wankers can win the Euro... Their respective flaws were pretty easy to spot. Actually, it just requires one game to notice. Coxon has insane talent, but he lacks confidence and probably cries at the drop of a hat. Noel Gallagher is a foul-mouthed bitch, and probably a corrupt influence to his druggie brother. His younger sibling, let's talk about him. Once again, a very skilled guy who's drugged, provocative, and follows the orders only when it benefits him. Their sidekick, Bonehead, is batshit crazy. Yesterday, his thing during training was to kick the ball into the bleachers to make the other guys run after it; today, it was betting money on whoever would get kicked out of the team first. Alex James must shut up for the rest of his existence, cause no one gives a fuck about his french party stories, and he's no Maradona, like come on, there are thousands of more capable defenders in England. Dave Rowntree is undoubtedly one of the most versatile defenders he has ever met, sadly he lacks personality. Brett Anderson, on the other hand, has too much personality, he's too flamboyant, he's _too much_. And here comes the very worst of them all, Albarn, the captain per default who despises everyone. Chelsea's star or not, he just could not bring himself to like him. He's full of himself. He has watched some of his most performances last night, how he behaves on the field. Already acting like he's the new Gazza... What a pitiful fella.

Smith could howl in his megaphone as much as he wanted, these kids didn't care, so he was just wasting his voice in the void. He checked his watch. Half past 10AM. Time to give these wankers a good shake. He grabbed them one by one, urged them to line on the field. One of them was fed up already: Liam.

« 'Scuse me, coach, why don't you use your megaphone ? »

The snarky remark caused hilarity among his peers. Albarn, however, just deemed him childish. Unsurprisingly, the seasoned coach would not get impressed this easily.

« Fifty push-ups. Right now. »

In this starting war, Liam would not give up so easily.

« If I don't? »

Without flinching, the old man retorted :

« You can pack your bags, crackhead. I want no rebellious kids on my field !»

Crackhead. No fucking way. He would punch this arsehole until his last breath. He had no right to disclose his personal issues like that. As he nearly threw his fist into Smith's face, his brother and Damon held him by the back.

« C'mon Gallagher, don't fuck it up... » muttered the blonde in his ear.

The coach didn't move. No fear, just plain disdain. If his paycheck hadn't been more than sufficient, he would have given up already.

« Phew. Losers. Guess I have no choice... » He went back to his favorite place, in the bleachers, where a shiny red megaphone guarded his seat. He grabbed the object hastily, before shouting: « Everyone, fifty push-ups, right now! »

The punishment was unfair. Albarn, as a captain, should have protested it. A part of his duty was to stand up for his peers. He felt even his closest friends glancing at him, waiting for a move, or even a word, that didn't come. Albarn was confused.

The rest of the training session was, at best, underwhelming. Passes were okay, some kind of chemistry emerged between the midfielders. But the penalties? A complete failure. Albarn was too absorbed by his personal struggles to score, Liam spent more time in pulling pranks on his favorite mates. Only Anderson gave a decent performance, and it wasn't even representative of his best abilities. They had to face the fact : nothing awesome would come down of this collaboration with Jim Smith

« Damo, this guy, he's awful !» That's what the entire squad reported to him on the way to the cafeteria. What could a newly appointed captain do? Send the federation a letter? Tell The Sun he has an extramarital affair? Wait, he's so despicable, realistically, no sane woman would shag him. To each complaint, the overwhelmed captain answered: « It will be okay guys... I swear we'll be okay. » Deep down, he knew it was fucked already.

**

Albarn was questioning his sanity. No one could stand him anymore, he was slowly getting aware of that. Graham tried to avoid his presence, even though they shared a room. After dinner, they had a short argument over Justine's disappearance. Gra begged him to get her back, while Damon preferred to let it go, and wait for her return. « That's how you treat people who love you? » Gra rarely expressed any disagreement with his old mate. Neither of them were used to having rocky conversations like these. It kept the blonde awake for the whole night. He rolled around in his bed, as usual his right leg was restless, this time shaking endlessly. He gave a quick glance at the alarm clock : 3 AM. Fuck's sake. He's heading for a walk. Maybe not outside. Moorcombe seems to be a vast building. There are many unknown places to visit.

He wandered around the third floor and its green tones. He walked upstairs, fourth floor, then saw a blue double-door with portholes. Unlocked. There he is. There's a swimming pool. The room is supported by marble pillars. On the back of the room, a flashy painting of a tropical beach can be seen. Without a doubt, no one swam in that pool since the fifties. Surprisingly, the water is cleaner than ever. He gets his shoes off. Clean and cold. Kind of relaxing. He still can't get his mind to stop his train of thought. He's neither a thoughtful lover, neither a decent captain, not even a reliable friend. The realization hurts, obviously. He doesn't know what to do. He's super tired. Eventually, he found himself asleep on a deckchair.

« Hey... Hey... Damo... Wake up... »

Graham was there to get him up.

« I looked for you everywhere, what happened? »

« I dunno. » groaned the blonde. « I have barely slept. »

« Sorry, but we gotta go, it's half-past seven, we have to eat. »

The cafeteria, with its shiny grey floor tiles and pastel green walls, seems to come straight out of a Meditteranean resort. Pachiras and guzmanias ornate every corner of the room, along with copies of Cézanne paintings. The soft, summer morning light accentuates this feeling of surrealness. Moreover, there's no one in sight. All the other guys have eaten already. Except for Graham and Damon, and two loud Mancunians.

As the Golden Duo took a seat on a big table, close to the window, they heard chatter from afar. Angry chatter, for the record.

« Mom should've swallowed you! »

« Don't talk about mom like that, you failed abortion! »

The Gallaghers definitely had the vocabulary of an angsty teenage boy. Damon could not hold back his laughter.

« Shut the fuck up ! » whispered the younger one. « The two gays are there. »

This time, the two friends were slightly less amused. Not that they were homophobic, it's just that they don't think they have to be gay to show each other affection in public. It's allowed to give your teammate a big hug if he scores in a game, why would it be forbidden outside of this context? Speaking of affection, these two really need some. They entered the room separately, Noël found a lonely chair near the counter, while Liam seated at Damon & Graham's table.

« Don't mind? »

Their answer didn't matter much, though.

« How 'ya doin'? »

« Hm, alright... » murmured the blonde. He'd rather die than say more. His dark circles spoke volumes on his mental state anyways.

Out of the blue, the newcomer declared :

« Thanks for yesterday, Albarn. »

His savior barely raised an eyebrow. What was going on? Since he wasn't getting any answer, the younger man kept going :

« If ya hadn't been there, I would be in jail right now. »

« Ah, yeah, about Smith... You're welcome... » He focused on his bowl of muesli, not giving any attention to the people around him, before leaving the table first.

Graham explained: « Excuse him, he's had a rough night. » Liam had nothing more to add.

The daily training routine followed the same steps for two days straight. Everyone would wake up at 7 AM, join the field at 9 AM, run tirelessly around the stadium for an hour, then embark into a simulacra of game. Albarn on one side, Anderson on the other. Gallagher usually acting as second-top for either, and five defenders. Smith's favorite setting, the trendy mid-nineties formation. Liam wanted to be recognized as a striker, always gave his best. The others rotated around them. That was the only way to get them to progress. In the afternoon, they would undergo core training, until five. Afterward, they were pretty much free. Pretty much, because Smith was still watching over them in other ways. Despite eating on his own and sleeping on the last floor, he bribed the cafeteria staff and even the cleaners to report him any incident they could notice between the players. It could be fights, just like it could be incoming calls or more mature stuff. They kept going in their lives without worries. Until the third day began, they had no idea about this situation.

**

« Well, if you don't like it, then I'm heading out! »

« Damo... That's not what I meant... »

The laundrywoman was just passing by, doing her job, and here she stumbles upon a very charming blonde guy, topless, standing in the middle of a complete zeitgeist of clothes. Meanwhile, by the other side of the door, another man, a cute brunette with glasses, was begging him to... Stay? She hid behind a protruding wall section. After all, Smith may need all the details...

« Fuck off, Gra. You know what, I don't need you. I don't need any of y'all. I'm the new fucking Gazza! If I want to win this fucking Euro, I'll do it by myself !»

The blonde was storming off, up in his delusion, while his roommate could hardly give less of a fuck. Damn, that was hilarious to watch. Having a bout of self-awareness, the blonde sighed, leaned at the wall, and profusely apologized.

« Okay, Gra, I take it back. Excuse me. The situation isn't really helping. »

His friend opened the door with a surprisingly straight face.

« I know, mate, I know. But I'm not helping you with your frocks. That's your own crap... »

The master of delusion grinned. As the laundry girl walked in, he asked her for help. Well, that was part of her job. He thanked her warmly. Both were lovely, actually. Too many guys would have made unwanted sexual comments, or forced her to get a drink, or just plainly pissed her off. These two were actually quite pleasant, despite the lack of organization in their room. She spotted underwear hanging on the doorknob, and empty toilet rolls standing on one of the nightstands.

« You should've let him get on with his bullshit.», sarcastically joked the brunette.

« That's part of my job, mister. »

« Hm, yeah, I'm not fond of the honorifics. My name is Graham, nice to meet you... »

The blonde picked up a handful of briefs before turning towards the unnamed worker, while his roommate, done with standing up for no reason, joined them.

« Ah, yeah. I'm Damon Albarn. Nice to meet ya. »

These were really the unhinged monsters Mr. Smith described to her the other day? This old hag was really a case of paranoid dementia. Meanwhile, they had finally gathered the leftover clothing. The laundry woman helped them to fold it since she had some time left.

« I'm Annie. Hope you guys are enjoying your stay! »

« Well, it'd be better without that knob... You see who I mean ? » wondered Damon.

« Nope. »

« Old, barks instead of speaking, always carries a notebook around.

« Oh, you mean, the coach? »

He nodded in approval.

« Did you met him? He's awful, right? »

« A few times, yes. He's plain rude. He got mad at my friend Donna yesterday for using a cleanser that makes him feel itchy. The thing is, he didn't mention having any allergies before... »

Annie was surprisingly of the chatty type. Graham thought it was adorable, so they let her complain on their despicable coach as much as she wanted to, before admitting :

« Are we surprised though? »

« He's just super creepy... » continued the blonde. « Like, that notebook... I'm sure he notes down facts about us while we're in the shower. You know, who has the biggest and who has the smallest... »

Annie winced :

« Ugh, gross. »

Graham kept going :

« Hey, remember what he said about Liam? Like, he's a crackhead or something? » 

« Yeah, that was so uncalled for. »

« Liam is kind of cunty, right, but I don't think he deserves that treatment...» pursued the brunette. « And from where did Smith got that from? »

Damn, if she had known how abusive that man is, she would have accepted no money from him. It was more than time to tell them about his plans :

« You guys should watch out. He bribed some of my colleagues into reporting any event that's going on in your rooms. That's how he knows everything about you...»

The Golden Duo turned their heads at her, completely oblivious. This had to be a nasty joke.

« Wait. Are you fucking kidding us? »

For the man in glasses, the pieces of the puzzle were fitting in :

« This morning, when he put Butler and Anderson in the same team... He mentioned they had to ''make up with each other''... Dude obviously knew some things we weren't aware of...»

Thye could not deny it anymore. Smith was obviously spying on them during their leisure time. As a captain, Damon’s role was to inform his squad. He should care for them, regardless if he likes them or not. Their dinner would be the best way to do so.

**

Another day went by. The same old routine, every day is the same. Smith’s dictator antics frighten even the most experienced players. Alex keeps on relating his French experiences to whoever seems eager to hear it. The Northern Gang, centered on Liam and Bonehead, are busy joking around. Apparently, the brothers haven't made up with each other yet, since the elder of the two now clings on to the sole Liverpool player of the batch, Guigsy, while the youngest engages conversation with anyone on sight. He let Alex tell him about his craziest French adventures, just like he would watch a Z movie, without any doubt on the fact that none of this shit has ever happened. In the midfield, Graham & Damon try to remain calm and collected at the sight of who happens to be their worst nightmare. Smith had the guts to set himself as an example for his players, and acts in a such despicable manner behind their backs... Coxon shivers at this thought. Albarn waits eagerly for the end. Liam pulled down James' briefs, they can't stop laughing. Coach would have already killed them if he was allowed to. Damon, simply jaded, watches them from afar. Even with a decent coach, they would hardly win anywhere with a striker like him. Too busy fooling around. Nothing is serious. Shame to waste such talent. He's nice, thank God. Much more than he seems to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the second chapter. third chapter (the big confrontation!) is almost ready... Thank you very much for reading.


	3. learning to fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Controversy arises amongst the team over Smith's unusual practices, which leads Liam and Damon to finally hold a meaningful conversation...

_Into the distance a ribbon of black_  
_Stretched to the point of no turning back_  
_A flight of fancy on a windswept field_  
_Standing alone my senses reeled_  
_A fatal attraction is holding me fast how_  
_How can I escape this irresistible grasp?_

**

At the end of the core training, Smith set them free thirty minutes earlier, as he had to join some FA officials for dinner, in the nearest big city. Damon sighed in relief. Following their rounds at the shower, the complete team joined at the cafeteria, and took place around the massive baptistry table. They lined up to pick up their plates, their food. Once everyone was seated, the blonde took his spoon and clung on his glass. 

« Guys, we need to speak right now. »

The entire squad tilted their heads. They were not used to witness any leader-like attitude in their captain's behavior. He didn't got up, to not attract any attention from the waitresses. 

« Gra and I have been informed on this morning that someone might spy on us. Please watch out. »

Dave asked first :

« Someone? Who? »

« You know who, it's the vultures again... » suggested an annoyed Mackey.

« Nah, not the vultures. I can't say who it is yet. Just... Watch out... »

Noël ironically disagreed :

« We ain't gonna be like the old fart... Dude sees conspiracies everywhere. »

« That's about the ''old fart'', can't add more. »

« Stop that, Damo ! » begged Dave. « Don't play it mysterious. The situation is far from being safe. »

« He's right. No one here wants to live in fear, huh? » nodded Bonehead, in a voluntarily melodramatic tone that made his squad shriek.

« We already live in fear with that damn knobhead... »

« C'mon Liam, whenever the coach gets mad at ya, someone comes at your rescue... » hissed his elder brother, which launched yet another family dispute between the two. The rest of their squad was too absorbed to notice, especially since Damon was calling everyone back :

« That's not the issue guys, let's get back on track for fuck's sake! »

In between the both cliques, Anderson kept the silence. It's not like he was fond or even complicit of Smith's crazy antics, he simply didn't want to show Albarn any support. A bloke who had no issues with dating a taken woman has likely no moral upholds. Lying is like child's play to him.

« 'Might be the first time I see you concerned with anything that hasn't to do with hating me... »

As expected, his rival sneered :

« Oh, shut the fuck up, scarecrow. That's a serious matter! »

He expected a better clap-back.

« That's what I told Justine when... »

It was anything but the right moment to bring up the name of his now-estranged girlfriend. His own clique, made of Osman and Butler, sighed in disbelief at the exact moment Brett mentioned her. It was too late, though, as their captain was enraged as he had rarely been before. He was so fucking exhausted, and these bastards would not even accept his help. He sharply left his chair, stood up in front of his rival, before growling at his face:

« ANDERSON, NOBODY FUCKING ASKED! »

And the drama king was back, sighed his best friend. As Damon got out of the room, pretending a « pee stop », Graham reassures himself by thinking he'll be back in one minute. But once the blonde walked away, he realized that would not be the case. Alex pinned him down to his chair before he could follow him:

« Gra, you can tell us who's the spy, right? »

« Well, the source of all of our issues, it's not that hard to know who... »

Dave lowered his voice, having guessed already who it could be :

« That's Smith? »

« Who else could it be... »

Alex didn't miss a word. Unlike his close friend, he yelled out loud:

« I guess he needs more shit to write in his dumb fucking book... »

His mates shut him down before he could be heard, which made him roll his eyes in frustration. Meanwhile, Guigsy was trying to get everyone back to their senses :

« Guys, can you realize how serious this is? I'm no lawyer but I can assure you, this goes against the law! »

« How did y'all know, by the way ? », asked Dave, who could not hold back his curiosity anymore.

« We'd like to protect this person, so we won't say more... » concluded the shy brunette. Bonehead, out of jokes for once, pointed out something that no one brought into the conversation before :

« And the captain, he can't give the federation a call, and sort up that stuff of his own? »

« It's not that easy, guys... »

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the table, the brothers were arguing again.

« Yeah, c'mon, what tells you I'm this cunt's fave? »

« Well, I dunno! » ironically jabbed the eldest. « Maybe the fact that he doesn't ever stick up for anyone besides you in that fucking team? »

« Hush, you're a liar! That's all you fucking know, lying, and maybe shoot in a ball from time to time! »

« Shut the fuck up, second top, you can't even be a striker! »

« Oh wait, the filler midfielder is gonna preach to us ? Mate, they brought you in 'cause we needed our quota of ManU players, not because you're skilled or whatever...»

« Fuck off, I'm a brilliant player, better than this fucking blonde poof at least. Why don't you go see him if he likes you so much, by the way? »

« Oh, don't worry, that's part of my plan... Just to prove ya that he doesn't give a crap about me! See ya, fucking cunts ! »

He wanted to win this verbal fight so badly. The mad blonde better tell him what he wants to hear. Or push him away. Either way, he wins.

**

Liam heard his captain expressing his love for the swimming pool quite a few times already. Without a doubt, he went up there. He climbed the stairs, got into the 4th floor. Doors unlocked as usual, but no one in sight. Two steps. A dim light comes out at his right side... Five steps... The rays emerge through a service door, which seemingly leads to a fire escape. What could it be upstairs?

Apparently, this balcony on the last floor is only accessible by these stairs. No need for a key. The blonde was sitting, his back arched on the delicate victorian baluster. Once he got closer, Liam noticed the fag on his left hand, and the hole left by a removed slab at his right side, where an iron box and a lighter were laid. That's definitely his favorite spot.

« C'mon, I'm that easy to find? »

Dumbest question ever. As sly Damon can be, snakiness isn't one of his primary qualities, mostly due to his clumsiness. He seems to be aware of his surroundings only when he's on the field; elsewhere, he is a walking disaster. Graham won't say otherwise, as the state of their room is currently closer to a war zone than to an actual place to rest. However, Liam hasn't been around him for long enough to notice that particular flaw. His answer severely lacks eloquence. The lone Liam has nothing in common with the Liam from the Northern Squad :

« Hide better next time. »

« Yeah... Maybe. »

The blonde grinned. By a simple hand gesture, he invited his cadet to take a seat next to him. He felt oddly comfortable by his side, maybe more than with Gra these days. Gra is his forever best man, you know, it's just that all they've been able to do since the week started is fighting, fighting, and fighting again, often over the dumbest shit. Meanwhile, Liam is kind of rude sometimes, even a little aggressive, but that's just the way he is, he means no harm. For these reasons, Damon thought he could ask him what was going on downstairs :

« So, how did the war planning go? »

The brunette grabbed a fag from the little pack on his side. Man, it had been a while since he last smoked. Doesn't hurt anybody from time to time. In between two breaths, he exhaled :

« Y'know... They're pissed off. »

« I get it. I'm pissed off by myself too. »

The sudden personal tone of the discussion made the youngest quite uneasy, as he immediately switched to a subject he assumed more light-hearted :

« Our both crews agree on something, for once... »

« Isn't being watched over while you sleep everyone's biggest fear? »

He laughed a bit, a sincere laugh for once. More comfortable. Liam could finally ask him the question that was burning the tip of his tongue since the debate began :

« My mates think you favor me. »

His big eyes enlarged again. He didn't get how anyone could think this. He strived to be a fair leader to the whole team, especially for the players he barely knows. That was complete backstabbing.

« Come on, why? »

« I dunno. You don't scold me as much as the others or some crap like that... »

Ridiculous. Damon considers them ridiculous. They should focus on Smith's borderline harassment instead of ganging up against him. Loser mentality.

« Well, maybe I don't want to scold you, unlike these bastards. »

« They're fine, Damon... » whispered Liam. « Well, except for that crow... »

« Brett, yeah, screw him. He's just there 'cause they have to sell jerseys. We're both vastly superior. »

Liam wholeheartedly agreed. Damon is a cunt, but the coolest cunt ever. He definitely loved being around him. 

« Y'know why I never get mad at you? You remind me of... Myself. I was like you two years ago. »

The younger striker's curiosity sparked. He couldn't imagine having anything in common with this super attractive middle-class man from Essex, besides their respective occupations.

« Like you? How so? »

« It wasn't coke for me though. Ritalin, Adderall, y'know, this kind of products you can get prescribed over a counter... I stopped altogether when I joined Chelsea, I didn't wanna screw it all up, see. But honestly ? It was awful. Before the game started, my ears were buzzing. Even the fan's cheering sounded muffled. I felt trapped in a box where my only escape was these little pills. And honestly, I know fellow amphetamine addicts who got it even harder. I'm lucky... »

A lesser-known side of the charming Chelsea striker. Liam could relate so hard. He was going through this at this time. That whole camp thingy was welcome, could help sober him up. He was away from the big cities and their potential suppliers. Smith disclosing his darkest secret wasn't so horrible, after all.

« We're surrounded by addicts, mate. » continued Damon. « That's how professional sports, or dare I say, being famous is. But it's not a pretext. We don't have to ruin our health like that. »

It was probably the only clever words the blonde uttered since the training camp began. Liam had never received such amount of support in his recovery before, not even by his own brother. It's hard opening up to Noel. His toughness is far from a simple appearance. 

« I'll try. »

The whole air was just so unreal. The sunset, it's the sunset. Those warm orange sun rays on Albarn's skin make him look like he's coming straight from a painting. His eyes are sparkling again. Yeah, he has finally calmed down. Neither of the two men seem to want to leave their new haven, though.

« Mate, if you feel like, you know, you're about to relapse, reach out to me. »

« Thanks, mate... But I'll do it on ma own. »

He's not weak. He'll do it alone. And they have to go back inside. They haven't eaten yet. Plus Damon has an important call ahead.

He dialed back home and no one answered. Justine might still be away. He couldn't imagine missing her this much. They always manage to ring each other at least once every two days when they're separated. Now, it's been nearly three days. Of course, there is a bit of worry underneath. The project in Leeds might actually just be shagging a local guy that is much more affectionate than he will ever be. This idea made him nauseous. He headed to bed as the sky darkened, long before Graham's movie on TV was over.

**

Too disciplined. Smith could not trust his own eyes. That's not his team of wankers. Something's odd. Liam, this complete dumbass, he isn't busy fooling around or picking up fights like he used to. His brother hasn't made any snarky remark for the whole morning. Albarn has grown a sense of duty, he pushes his teammates forward, he's even cheering for them, including on his mortal enemy Anderson who has finally cut his hair. It's awful, but at least he's finally a decent-looking athlete. Nah, there's something in the air. The change is just too drastic in one night. He made them do a whole round of muscle building, then ten runs around the field, and no one complained. That means... Oh dear god, please, no... He must congratulate them. Something he has almost never done since he became a coach... He'll try, though his sincerity isn't guaranteed. He picked up his megaphone and congratulated them in his very own words :

« You guys are very obedient today... I dunno what the fuck y'all are plotting, but still, congrats, it's great. »

Hearing him complaining about plots was the most hilarious part for his players. The situation was just too ironic to keep a poker face. Especially for his black sheep, Liam, who had been thinking of a killer return fire all night long. At some point, he even asked his brother some help, even though the dispute between them was still ongoing.

« Coach, speaking of plotting, how much would 'ya pay for a video of my arse? »

Smith's face got red, red as a pepper. A volcano about to explode, not accompanied by funny lava flows like in Kilauea, nope, more like a massive Mont St. Helens type of debris avalanche that would immediately sweep away everything and everyone around. Albarn, despite his inner satisfaction, had no other choice than to come at his new friend's rescue :

« Coach, he just said ''How much would you pay us if we build muscle mass ?''. »

The coach wasn't buying it. Crap. They were fucked.

« Huh. Sure. Stop that shit. I might be getting old, but I still know what I hear, you massive cunts ! »

Smith was starting to lose temper.

« Well, coach, we gotta talk... »

« Talking with y'all is a complete waste of time! »

The captain didn't intend to give up, not right now. His tone got a lot more pointed. He looked down on his coach, without ending the eye contact. If he wanted to break him down, he would break him down.

« If you don't, we're bringing the case up to the FA, don't think that's very convenient for you or the team's image...»

« As if you cared about the team's image ! » chuckled the older man.

« You don't even care about us, shut up! » Noël voiced his frustrations Even Anderson was siding with them, after a long round of reflection. As he told Osman during breakfast, there were quite a few red flags. Albarn was right for once. The coach returned to his old habits, grabbed the captain by the collar, the latter who didn't flinch nor bat an eye.

« Albarn, if you think that going on a crusade against your coach will finally make a decent captain out of you, I regret to inform you that you are an absolute moron! »

« Fuck off! We know about that bribery thingy! You're disgusting. »

As he let Albarn go, he could read in his player's faces that they were all aware. Who the hell spilled the truth? Who dared to ruin his authority like that! This person is so screwed, he won't ever let them go, their life is going to become a pure hell...

« Who told you so? »

« Doesn't matter, » brushed off Damon. « You either stop that crap right now or we're filing a report. It hasn't even been four days since this camp started, and so far, we've just wasted our precious time in this shithole. »

A heavy silence fell down upon the field. Smith broke it. He could not go back. He had to give them everything they wanted.

« What do you guys expect from me, then? »

« Privacy and trust. You treat us like toddlers. » After a complicit look from Graham, which reminded him of his teenage years, he completed: « Hell, even the kids at the training center have more freedom than we do. »

Smith put down his very last card: pinning the responsibility on his most turbulent players: « I've been told things, and I witnessed the... »

He was interrupted by Anderson, who perfectly guessed what he was about to say: « Coach, these jokes are harmless. It's important to build up bonds between the players, isn't it? »

Smith had to face it, not only he was defeated, he had rightfully lost everyone's support. Now the tables were turned in Damon's favor. 

**

_A soul in tension that's learning to fly_  
_Condition grounded but determined to try_  
_Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies_  
_Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for waiting. It might be my only update for a while as I am starting a new job on the 8th. Hope you enjoyed it regardless.
> 
> Some of you might've recognized the lyrics of Pink Floyd's "Learning to Fly". That song, in my opinion, describes perfectly Damon's growth throughout the chapter...


	4. The Moony F**ker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> « That's my lesson, Albarn. Don't be a wanker. »
> 
> **
> 
> A new deadline causes irremediable tensions amongst the team, and a makeshift oracle gives Damon a lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I'm finally over this job this is amazing-
> 
> Anyways here I am, with the new adventures of our fave gay soccer players. Enjoy!

Old, balding assholes eating overpriced lobster around silk slicks and candelabras. Football is getting gentrified more and more every day, muttered Smith to himself. Street and Orbit... Those were names for cartoon characters, not for FA higher-ups. Previously, they discussed advertisements campaigns and partnerships with clothing apparel stores. Sports had disappeared from the table. He poured himself another shot of Chateau-Petrus in his delicate crystal glass.

Orbit later dabbed his mouth with the once again overpriced red napkin before glancing at their stooge, whose face was getting more and more flustered at each gulp :

« While we are there, M. Smith, we just received crucial information from the FIFA headquarters. »

« Nice. So, what? »

« According to de Havelange, our team will face the Netherlands for a friendly game in early July. »

He could've choked with his last sip of wine. It was way too early, even for a friendly game.

« Of course, take this with a grain of salt, as the news isn't official yet. »

As if it's going to change anything? They were beyond fucked. The Netherlands, Cruyff's home country, they created, mastered, and polished Total Football. You can never predict what they are going for.

« We believe in you, Jim. They will be ready. »

**

Smith, who tends to favor traditional tactics over risky ones, believed a defensive formation would not give their rivals any free space to strike. It keeps the ball from entering the surface. Plus they had this gorgeous set of defenders. As part of his new method, he had to unveil his plans to his players in advance so they could practice longer. That was one of Albarn's requests. They took possession of the cafeteria before their first round of training. Smith got inside with his board and markers, and naturally, his Moleskine on the table. Liam, who was sitting right next, had the irrepressible urge to open it. Damon, at the opposite side, gave him a disappointed glance whenever he got his hand closer from the notebook. Eventually, he stopped.

The coach undoubtedly wasn't as assured as before. He let complete control over the tactic to his players, just raising his voice for giving them a clear outline. 5-3-2 was the formation he had initially planned, which stirred up debates, especially among the midfielders, led by Rowntree and Noel, who argued that this setting leaves them behind. They were supported by Brett, whose opinion on the matter would completely shift the whole conversation :

« I believe the most suited formation is a 4-3-3. »

« C'mon », yelled Bonehead. « What the fuck is that crap? »

Smith, quite distraught, completed :

« The tactic we used in 1966. It made us win. You guys don't really encounter it much these days in England, though. »

« Alex, wasn't that Goethals' fave in Marseille...» whispered Graham. Alex nodded. For once, he was shutting up, at everyone's request.

« It works wonders in France, but as I said earlier, you can’t pull that off in England. »

« Why not? I mean, you guys did it in 1966... » pointed out the captain, always first to flaunt about his extensive knowledge on football history.

« We're at a time where football is getting increasingly more defensive, and... »

Liam interrupted him :

« Huh, we're done with 'dem defensive games... It's a complete bummer! »

« I agree with him, » added Damon. « Winning matters, yes. But... If we win in a predictable manner, then fans won't be pleased. 'Gonna be hard selling jerseys to a bunch of jaded supporters, isn't it ?»

The monetary argument was an enormous surprise for Smith, though he wholeheartedly agreed. 

« We can try to put it in place. However. If it doesn't work, you guys won't have a say in my formations ever again. Get it? »

He didn't have to ask them twice. Plus, for once, they were paying attention to his orders.

**

Four days out of eight had already passed. Damon waited eagerly for it to end. Not that he hated his teammates, he just had important business to sort up outside. Still no news from Justine. He called Jane, her best friend, as well as Jamie's ex-wife. He hated her guts, but if there's anyone that knows best about Justine's whereabouts, that's obviously her.

The English National team practiced their brand-new formation until dinner time. They had to make up for the time they lost at fighting against Smith. The latter was barely here during the training. He spent most of his ninety minutes on the phone with the higher-ups. After the end of the call, he goes back to watching his team with his jaded glance, praying internally that this shit isn't going to last. So did Damon. Since he did not have to worry about his teammates anymore, his internal issues were taking over.

« Gra, if you can, grab me some food, I might be late for lunch. »

And so he ran away before his best man could ask him why. Thank god there were phones in every room. He could not picture himself making such a private call in front of other people... Not even in front of Graham. He entered the room and pulled the button to close the windows down, before jumping nonchalantly on his bed and grabbing the phone. Damon is admittedly terrible at remembering numbers, which forces him to get his notebook out of his suitcase. Page O... Jane, there she is.

« Hi, this is Jane. »

« Hiya Jane, it's Damon. »

Short silence occurs. Hearing his voice causes the massive distress she desperately attempts to mask. 

« Cool. »

The coldest ''cool'' ever uttered, so cool it was chilling his entire spine and freezing his hopes underway.

« Excuse me, were you busy? »

« Not at all, » she assured. « So... What's up? »

« Well... It'd be better if I knew what is Justine up to. I've been calling home every night for four days and she never dials back... »

« Ah, of course... » This little sarcasm in her tone wasn't satisfying to hear. At all.

« She's still in Coventry, and completely overworked. »

Coventry? Last time he checked, she took the train for Leeds. Perhaps a new project that required her help in the meantime and which she could not refuse.

« You have her number here? »

« She's the one who called me, so I didn't note it down. It was like, two days ago. »

Suddenly, a detail popped up in his mind. Justine uses a phone only for her professional endeavors. She begged him to not ring her at this number unless it was a case of emergency, but at this point, it was his last chance.

« Thank you, Jane, good night. »

Her number was somewhere in that damn notebook, obviously... Nothing on page F, nothing on page J... Page P. « Professional Justine ». This doesn't make any sense, but whatever...

**

Liam hadn't made up with his brother yet, to the point they had switched rooms last night. The second-top was now always around his sidekick, Bonehead, sometimes flanked by Guigsy, and some new mates, such as Senior and Mackey, who were pretty much alone due to Cocker's absence. These two had nothing in common with them besides being northerners. Thankfully, this sole fact was enough to create solid bonds. Liam felt blessed to have them around, they're so chatty that he never has to initiate a conversation. Them and Bonehead really make a pleasant company. They've got stories about every famous player. For example, Senior once met a completely shitfaced Maradona at a Spanish VIP club. Mackey isn't at a loss for trivia either, with a major difference that his are much more believable :

« I played with Cantona in Leeds, that fella, I've no fucking clue of what's going on in his head. »

« He was into that philosophical shite back then? »

« Oh dear, lord, he was. Even the French don't get him apparently... »

« Well, if they're all dummies like that Papin dude, of course, they don't... »

Everyone at the table is laughing, except for one. Liam's seat faces the entrance of the cafeteria, he can spot any movement in the hall. What he sees there is some guy with crutches and elongated legs walking in. The brunette urges his mates to shut up.

« How's everyone doing? »

« Jarv? Aren't you supposed to rest? »

Injured or not, the former captain still wanted to feel involved in his team's whereabouts. Actually, it was Street who called him personally, after Smith complained about Albarn's inexistent leadership during the dinner. The Sheffield striker has been nearly forced to come. He did not mind, though. He held a very favorable opinion on Albarn until then. Played against him a few times, he's a fascinating guy. He misses a pass in the most ridiculous way possible, and two minutes later, he's racing towards your six-yard box, about to score. The textbook image of unpredictability. Judging from Street's description, that's how he behaved outside of the field as well.

« I've got something to sort up... Where's your captain? »

« Albarn? No idea » answered Mackey. « He didn't show up at dinner. »

« Shame...Gotta meet him right now... »

He went back on his steps, silently, scrutinizing the delicately chiseled tiles hanging at the ceiling. Artistic-minded players seemed to be the craze back then. Cocker actually didn't give a flying fuck about football, he just happened to be a brilliant player. His only interests gravitated around women, having sex with women, acting outrageous, and receiving attention. And space. Fuck's sake, that fella was completely obsessed with space. Hence his nickname, « Starman ». Obvious nod to Bowie. Naturally, he's a big Bowie fan, although he considers his Berlin trilogy as the height of his artistry. Mackey and Senior had been playing with him for nearly two decades, they took notice of every single of his oddities. Right now, he's very likely heading towards the upper floors, at the research of their hot-blooded captain, hoping he won't freak out at the idea that he needs advice. And that's exactly what he did.

If you deemed Anderson's allure as shocking, wait until you meet Cocker. His legs take up at least two-thirds of his body and his small face appears slightly womanly. He dresses himself up with flashy designer shirts, flare pants, and vintage shoes. Basically, Jarvis is the lovechild of Austin Powers and that high-schooler who's into poetry and won't stop reminding you that he is into poetry. At least, unlike the latter, he doesn't take himself too seriously. Here he comes, poking the elevator's button at dozen times until its doors welcome him. He's not alone though, as some silent boy in glasses is standing on his right corner, smoking cigars nonchalantly. Ah, he's seen him a few times already... Maybe at this charity gala last year, you know, that one in Brighton... But that mate with glasses knows him, judging from his greetings :

« Hey, Jarvis, feeling better already? »

« Not yet, I'm just checking if everything's alright. »

« Damon will be glad to see you around... »

Or maybe not, cause you can't predict what's going on in his deranged little mind these days. Actually, Graham left the room after getting tired of seeing him repeatedly dialing at his apartment. Justine isn't there, mate, is it really necessary to put yourself under such amount of emotional torture...

« Our room is the 13th, on the 3rd floor. »

« Thank you, comrade. »

**

The excentric northerner had knocked at the door so many times that Damon, still soaked from his cold shower, feared it could be the police. Who knows, someone might have murdered his girlfriend and he was the number one suspect, that's why she didn't pick up... Then, he sees standing at the door his predecessor, his unique hand gestures, his crutch, and his overly complicated sentences :

« Damon, I've been commissioned by Street to give you a short course on how to become a reliable team captain. »

The blonde steps back and grabs the nearest T-shirt, oh crap, it's one of Gra's nerdy ones. Embarrassing. He has no other choice than to let the fanciful veteran in. Even more embarrassing. He didn't even clean up the sink...

« Excuse me, what the fuck ? And what's up with your knees... »

Jarvis didn't miss out on the cozy chesterfield armchair placed aside the massive wardrobe. His foot on his healthy knee, he behaved like a customer in a posh pub.

« My orthopedist had no complaints, I may be back on the field in two months or so. It doesn't really matter sadly, I'm still retiring at the end of the season. »

The guest, even when his presence isn't scheduled, should receive a drink. Sadly, Damon had finished his bottle of Pernod yesterday, after another long evening lost at trying to call his girlfriend. She didn't even answer her professional phone. Absorbed by the research of his electric kettle, he muttered just a few amenities :

« Oh... Well... Thanks for coming such a long way for me, then... »

« I'll take my friends to the closest Wetherspoon's afterward. But that's not something the captain should do! »

He nodded. The veteran is already wallowing in his explanations :

« If there is one point you should remember, it's to never, and I say NEVER, NEVER EVER READ THE SUN. Don't talk to anyone who reads it either. They've been force-fed so many lies that they can't even word a personal thought anymore. It works on politics and football equally. They can destroy your reputation to sell a piece of paper. »

« I know, right, » utters his successor while pouring fresh tap water into the plastic container. Jarvis watches him coming back-and-forth across the room.

« This includes the fans. They don't truly love you, they love the idea of the victorious you. Once you lose, you're nothing but a source of disappointment. In these moments, they're no better than a bunch of wild lionesses hunting in the jungle. »

If only kicking that moony fucker out of his place didn't risk the trust his officials have put on him... He bites his cheek, as he brews the scalding hot water onto the finely decorated mugs he found inside of his nightstand. Suddenly, Cocker drops the constructed sentences.

« You know what, in ten years, I'm sure these dummies won't be into football anymore. We fucking suck, while the other guys in other sports are crushing it. Like, y'know, Boardman, that cyclist... He's constantly correcting his position on his bike, he built an altitude tent in his house, he's always looking for new gear that may make him go faster... Meanwhile, what are we doing once training is over? Well, we smoke fags while no one's watching. We're absolute wankers, Albarn. » Suddenly, Cocker stopped sounding like a university lector, which was much more enjoyable for his host. There was a misconception about him being posh that he frankly despised. His parents were teachers, yes, but in the middle of nowhere. Nothing glorious about that. Cocker has already sipped his teacup. He's another partygoer for sure.

« That's my lesson, Albarn. Don't be a wanker. You know, I dearly love women. Still, you will never find me bragging about my latest conquests in front of my comrades. Keep it mysterious. Don't brag, don't show-off. You're the same as your other players. »

The image of Liam last night, chatting so casually with him, resonated in his mind. He had been so quick to dismiss the younger Gallagher as another laddish nuisance... But maybe he's the laddish nuisance.

« Have you ever felt... You know... Like you do not belong with the other players... »

« Actually, I stopped thinking that way ages ago. In the end, we still earn our bread at catching a leather ball. Doesn't matter if you enjoy collecting Italian cars or not. »

Realize that you were the problem all along is always painful. Damon felt his throat itching. Jarvis had closed his round and was now trying to reunite his Sheffield teammates. After he closed the door, he rolled up against the wall, staring at the ceiling for three long minutes. That was the problem. He wasn't superior to anyone.

There, out of nowhere, the handset's dreaded ringing could be heard from the bathroom.

**

The Northern gang had devoured their pannacotta and were ready to go back to their rooms. They didn't want too, though. Mackey and Senior hoped to see Jarvis a little longer once he's done with his crash course with Albarn. Guigsy and Bonehead had the intent to play table tennis. Liam didn't want to face Noel. You can't go on avoiding your own brother for the rest of your life, but still, that's all the brunette could come up with. He never felt supported by his sibling, why would it happen now, innit...

Cocker's appearance felt like a relief. He had an excuse to stay around his new mates, after all.

« Guys, we're going at Wetherspoon's! »

« Jarv, you can't drive with that knee... »

« Steve, I'm going to let you know something, I don't care! »

He turned around Liam, who was nonchalantly sipping his can of Diet Coke behind Russell.

« You may come with us, just, don't act rude, huh? »

« Why would I be rude? »

« You were at that Brighton gala, don't you? »

Holy moly is this mistake going to follow him wherever he goes? He had tested E's, Wizz, molly, weed, and speed during these legendary days at the Hacienda. Well, now that the Mondays and the Roses had disbanded, the venue has lost all of his value, so he stopped using drugs for a while. Up until that crazy night in Brighton, surrounded by every big name of the British football game, where he had never been so bored in his whole life and therefore accepted this very little line of white powder to cheer himself up. Here comes the black hole. He woke up in a bush, around a naked girl who disappeared almost immediately after waking up, trailed down to his hotel, and assumed from Noel's voice that he went overboard. There was this picture of him trashing down the bar by pouring overpriced champagne on it. Manchester City paid The Daily Mail an insane amount of pennies to hide the evidence. Damage control. Still, the veteran had this image engraved on his memories, thanks to the unique taste of that Japanese whiskey he drank throughout the night. He's never tasted anything that sweet since. It's a taste – and a state – he was looking for every time he snorted this treacherous white powder. A lightbulb would shine bright for a few seconds, and then switching off. The burning heat was enough to keep him on the dancefloor for a few hours. Once the effects wore off, he was feeling more miserable than ever, as miserable as he felt on this damned morning of June 1994. And nothing had been the same since. Liam growled: « It was me, yes, let's move on, please. »

And so, they engulfed into his modest Audi sedan.

**

Frankly speaking, Jarvis couldn't stand the crowd that usually flocks into these pubs. Since he had rarely ventured in Devonshire before, there was at least one place where he knew what to expect from. The independent pubs, you can't guess exactly what kind of drinks they could be selling just by judging from their facade.

Mackey crossed the entrance first, holding the door for his good friend and his crutch to come in until the other two sneaked in. For a Thursday night, the place was a little busier than usual. In these small towns, there are no students to party on their antepenultimate day of the week. They picked the only round table of four that was left available. Jarvis ordered four pints of lager, one for everyone. Liam wasn't particularly at ease, he didn't know enough any of these guys. Still, they were better company than his own brother, and you can't say no to a free beer.

« Just one question guys, is All-barn always this silent? »

« This wanker always has his bloody mouth open, » joked Mackey.

« Well, tonight, he just... Made tea, and nodded. » recalled the veteran. « I was expecting more resistance. »

Liam identified pretty quickly what was going on. His bird, it's always about his bird, he's completely hung on her, even though there is technically no chance that she will ever go back to him, well, except maybe for picking up her stuff, granted Damon owns the flat and not her. Though, he would not tell them anything. A sort of common trust had build up between the two since their conversation, it wasn't worth spoiling it over people he doesn't know whether they were truly on his side or not. Senior pursued :

« Damon's a sucker for attention, don't mind him. He's a great player, but as a captain, he's very debatable... »

Liam interrupted him. Not that he disagreed, they just did not have any better option with Jarvis gone.

« Who else d'ya see then... »

« Anderson would be fine... »

« C'mon, Anderson? He's more focused on looking hot while celebrating his goals than to score any ! »

« Albarn would sell his whole squad for two seconds of attention, that's not any more glorious. »

« He just... » added hesitantly Jarvis. « He just seemed very troubled tonight. He wasn't radiating the confidence I expected from a national team leader. »

Mackey was over the shady talk. Some truths had to be unveiled.

« Well, we gotta tell you Jarv, our new coach treated us like crap the first three days, and Albarn confronted him a few times... »

« All coaches treat their players like crap. »

« I dunno any other coach who bribes the hotel staffers to get info about his player's personal lives, though. » Liam feared he would regret reveal the situation quite soon, especially knowing that the FA had brought Jarvis there. The ex-captain, though, was as genuinely shocked as any person with basic empathy would be.

« Dammit... That might be going a little overboard... »

Senior hit the back of his former captain's shoulder blade with his palm, in a comforting attempt.

« We sorted that up, no worries, don't tell the FA. Anyways, I'm taking a piss. »

Mackey followed, unsurprisingly, his close friend, leaving their captain and their new mate alone. Tension ensured. They don't have anything to say.

« Smith hasn't usurped his reputation. »

« Huh? »

« Well, uh, that's why everyone fears Smith. »

« Sorta... His bloody mouth is looser than some hooker's arsehole... Don't ever tell anything to this fella... »

Jarvis had been warned. Liam blurts random answers so naturally, he sometimes doesn't even notice how crude it can sound. Quiet hilarious in a way, he can't hold back that laugh :

« Ha! That's... Hm... Delicate! And... How's Noel? »

« Screw Noël. »

Once again, he knew what to expect.

« Hope you infantile family feud won't have an impact on your team dynamics. »

« You don't know about ma family, Starman. »

Jarvis tried as hard as he could, he didn't found the right words to speak to Liam. Once he shuts down, it's for an indefinite lapse of time. It could last for five minutes or five days, and he didn't have a whole week to spare.

« Liam, the FA got complaints. »

« Hm. »

« Your coach says you don't seem to care about team play once your bro is on the field, that's right? »

« You don't know how that cunt really is like. »

« Look, if the issue isn't resolved by the end of the camp, they say they will pull you out of the squad. The both of you. » « I'm not supposed to disclose this. You two are just so talented that it would be a waste for our team. So please, be wise. »

« Ask him first. He's the one who started it all... »

The Yorkie sipped his beer extremely slowly, up until his friends returned from the restrooms. They had a fun time together. Liam's time passed by, pint after pint until the venue closed down. What a trap. These higher-ups do love to pin all the shitty crap on him. He's the odd one out and they want him out.

**

Smith tooted for the fifth time in thirty minutes. This was by far the worst practice his protegees ever had. Fouls after fouls, missed passes after missed passes? Nothing to keep here. They were even using their hands to pass out the ball at some point, it's like giving lectures to kindergarten players.

« End the mess, right now. »

The old man urged them to join him. They created a circle around him. Obviously, they were getting scolded.

« We won't make it to the Euro. Plain and simple. You guys suck so hard. I've never seen a worse team before... And I taught middle school children for years! »

Awkward glares rolled around the circle as a rumor spreads around the hippest venues of London. Damon watched over his friends. Graham, compared to the rest of his teammates, remained collected and puzzled. He has that gut, that tells him about the events long before they actually happen. Shame that they hadn't been speaking much lately, he would've probably warned him. The captain sighed.

« I'm resigning. With or without a coach, the end result will be the exact same. You are nothing more than a bunch of whiny losers. I don't care about your drug addictions, I don't give a shit about your wife that has fucked away, I care even less about your family troubles. Your mom is dying? Don't give a shit. Give me a decent game or you're out. »

He was staring at Damon the whole time. Someone told him about Justine. Someone broke his trust and told this despicable waste of oxygen about his biggest personal troubles. He swore to God at this exact moment that whoever couldn't keep his mouth shut would pay the big price.

« We're over. I'm calling the FA right now. Please get out of this fucking lawn, you don't even deserve to tread on it. »

**

This is how the Second Crisis Summit of the week took place. Albarn convinced the cafeteria ladies to set up the tables together. He chose the central seat, on the way for the self-service, so everyone around the table had to path ways with him at some point, flanked by Graham and Dave. The others did not make a big fuss to sit down for once. Anderson, Osman, and the Crow Crew, as Liam loved to name them, hid behind Noël and Ashcroft on the far right corner, while Liam and the rest of the Yorkshire boys, went at Graham's side. Now that they were all there, Damon got up.

« My dear mates, we are fucked. »

Some dude clapped in his hands. No big mystery on who it could be, besides Anderson.

« Whoa, thank you Captain Obvious... »

Ashcroft gave him the iciest glare, and he stopped.

« So, where did we fail? And, when I say we, it's as a group. Don't pin it on each other. »

Truthfully, it was nothing else than an elegant manner to tell Anderson, Noël, and everyone around the table to not refute his leadership. Noël, whose lips were aching to disclose his truth :

« Well, the FA fucked by giving us fucking Smith as a coach out of all people. »

« Smith was a fucking toff, 'rite, but let's not lie to ourselves, we won't win the Euro if we keep on playing like this. »

« Huh, what do you mean by ''like this'', you snobbish fucker ? »

Damon would probably never acknowledge it out loud, but there was always a pleasure in seeing Alex owned, especially by someone as witty as Liam. He was enraged as he had never been before, ready to jump at his prey's throat at any movement.

« I don't speak with retards. » declared the brunette, more emboldened than ever.

« At least, the ''retard'' doesn't play with his fucking hands, Alex. »

Lord knows how much it takes for Dave to get dragged down onto drama. Their old inconvenience groaned, and finally shut up. Hallelujah.

« Whoever our coach is, we are meant to win. That's how it is. And we won't get anywhere by whining like spoiled kids, methinks. »

The captain had spoken. A sudden silence engulfed into the cafeteria.

« If they send us a new coach, we have to welcome him with open arms, regardless of he is qualified or not. »

Someone was laughing. He didn't need to check his eyes twice.

« Albarn, you're the one that launched this crusade on Smith, remember? »

« No one asked, Anderson. »

« You won't shut me up twice like this. Give me some arguments, cause I have plenty of them. »

« Huh, then, go ahead, tell me which ones? »

His sarcastic tone is frightening. Graham can feel how quickly he's escalating in anger.

« You ganged us up against Smith, and that's why he never put any trust in us, to begin with. You simply regurgitated gossips you overheard, without any tangible proof. »

« English, please... »

The Londoners ignored Liam's joke, too busy hissing at each other like cat and dog. Graham sighed. This situation occured whenever the kooky blonde and the elegant brunette were forced to stay in the same room for more than five minutes. Visceral loathing. Even before Damon stole Justine from him, they already hated each other's guts.

« This fiasco's all on your shoulders, Albarn. If I were you, I'd probably do the same as Smith. »

Then Anderson walked out, his footsteps ricocheting across the dining hall. Damon saw his bodyguards, made of Osman, Butler, and Gilbert, following him. More surprisingly, the Northern Squad left as well. Of course, Alex, still enraged. Eventually, only three people remained around the table: Damon, Graham, Dave. Still baffled, he collapsed on his seat, panting heavily.

« Dames, you okay? »

« No Graham I am definitely not okay. »

And thus, Damon and his best friends were finally on their own. He hoped the squad would not take it personally. That's just how they've been working for the past fifteen years. In the end, they always crawl back to each other once something's wrong.

« What a crappy day, Gra... »

Slouching his back on the chair, his eternal acolyte sighed :

« Yup, definitely. »

« I feel so fucking lost, mate. »

« We all are... »

He's tired, perhaps, hiding his feelings of ponderosity behind the stark frame of his glasses. His eyesight is actually clearer than ever; no nearsighted man can become a professional football player. He often finds himself slanting his eyes so he can read the newspaper easily, it's no big deal. The frames are a means of protection, his shield against a field that lives in a vacuum, where the sensitive, kind-hearted men often end up swallowed in darkness. Graham knew for Damon's past addiction. He wasn't exactly the most liked player amongst his rivals and teammates alike. He's fiery, arrogant, high-spirited, a crazy dog unleashed, the Greyhound. Just like his namesake, he's overly protective of his loved ones and easily fooled by the latter.

Since Damon sorted out his problematic habit, his personality had drastically changed. His insecurities were showing through his facade of pride and self-centered attitude. He's not an egoist, at least that's how Graham perceives him, he's just pretending to be. Everyone has their own shields.

« Sorry Gra, I'm going to bed, I'm about to pass out. »

The brunette didn't picture himself to leave the cafeteria last.


	5. Long Snake Moan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To ease his worsening insomnia, Damon goes for a swim and makes an unlikely encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * little warning for mild violence *
> 
> Here we are on lockdown again, so, say hi to the long awaited new chapter! It had been sitting on my laptop for a while and I am glad to finally have time to correct it :)
> 
> The title is, as you guessed, taken from the eponymous PJ Harvey song, which is synonymous for me with hot summer nights and, well, sensuality... Which song could be more fitting than this!
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy it !

3 AM isn't the right moment to go for a swim. In the eyes of an insomniac captain, there is no such thing as a « right moment » anymore. He needs to empty up his mind. Too much shit going on there. Justine cutting down ties with him, Smith abandoning the team, the coming games, and everyone agreeing on the fact that he is a massive cunt. WHAT DID HE DO TO GOD TO DESERVE A SUCH TREATMENT? As far as he could recall, he had always been an attention whore, that kind of kid who eats ladybugs to anger his kindergarten teacher. The reaction's nature doesn't matter, as long as there is one. He used to not give a single flying fuck about anyone's opinions. Maybe that's what Smith meant by ''growing up'', suddenly becoming self-aware.

He's standing on the starting block. The large, turquoise puddle seems to be screaming at him... Come over... Come over... Let yourself drown in the chlorine. The smell of the substance always draws him back to a conversation he had with Alex and Dave, earlier on that year. Alex's point was that semen and chlorine had a similar scent. Vulgar and vain, as usual with him. Still, once he vanished, going after some new lassie, the Chelsea duo could not stop laughing at this crazy assumption. Since then, Alex's supposed STDs became their favorite joking matter.

Then, Damon dived. The water was so cold in contrast to the boiling hot weather. He's not a summer guy by any means. As aesthetically pleasing coconut trees and pure white sand beaches might be, it's associated with scorching temperatures and skin-burning sunrays. He went on trips with Justine to Bali and later the Bahamas; the latter became his worst nightmare ever. It's on this week where his sleeping issues started. Those have never vanished since. His insomnia was the main motive behind his extensive drug use, as he needed to stay awake at all costs on the field. Despite cutting off amphetamines, his need to rest hasn't reappeared. How worthless.

One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, full of anger, scheduled like music paper. No big difference from a bold move in a game. Those just fill him up with relief. Heh. More than football. He should quit. Huh? He should quit? No way. Not now. Not before the Euro. Not even before the next World Cup. He would be 30, ideally leaving in a bang. A win seems unlikely in the current state of things, even in next year's tournament. Still, reaching the semi-finals would be a great step forward after the recent debacle. The FA had to rebuild the team from scratch, after all, the only recurring player they've selected is Jarvis and well, we all know what occurred to his knee...

At the thought of the World Cup, he stopped swimming and rolled over. The storm inside of him seems gone. He lets out a relieved sigh and opens his eyes. Someone's watching over him from the deckchairs. He can distinguish dark hair and a short frame. Seen from inside the water, it could be anyone from his team.

« Aye. »

Ouch, not a pleasant surprise. You really can't stay on your own for more than two minutes in this fucking camp. He let out a groan and got back on his feet, and recognized the intruder... Liam, of course, that gait, that accent, it could only be Liam. And why on Earth was Liam Gallagher awake, in front of his sleep-deprived eyes, in the middle of the night?

« Liam, why aren't you in your bed? »

« Noel kicked me out of da room again, he's done with me watching Splitting Image... »

« It's still on TV at the moment? »

« I recorded the ones I missed... There's no better shite on the telly... »

Damon was getting more and more accustomed to his second-top's oddities. It wasn't about Splitting Image, but more about his unrestrained laugh. You just can't rest in the same room as an exhilarated Liam... He's a kid who can't control himself.

Damon emerged out of the pool, taking possession of the spare chair at Liam's left side.

« Why are ya training in the middle of the night? »

« Same shit, as usual, I can't find sleep. »

« You'd better see someone to sort that up... »

« Dude, most tranquilizers are banned by the UEFA, you should know that. » He then switched his position, sitting right in front of his new friend, then poked his temples: « That's all in my head anyways... »

Fake excuse, his second-top spotted it immediately. That fella can't lie to save his life. He'd be a terrible spy. However, he wasn't so sure about the actual reasons behind his psychological pain.

« It's about her again? »

« Kind of, » he admitted in between two sighs. « She called me last night. We're on a break, apparently. »

« That sucks. »

The blonde chuckled: « Not really... I'm quite satisfied with that, cause there's a chance she might come back... And it gives me some time to step up my game, you know. »

« How so, you are an awesome player, mate! »

« I'm a beast of the field but inept on private. »

« What does inept means? »

Damon noticed the sudden confusion inside Liam's pupils. Sometimes, he forgets he's from a very privileged background.

« I'm bad, I'm terrible, I am an asshole. »

« I would never hang out with an arsehole, y'know. I've got enough of 'em in my family... »

So the rumors were true... The Gallaghers were often said to be emerging from an abusive household. Since the media loves a struggle story, Damon quickly deemed these allegations as exaggerated. « Yeah, I know... I'm glad you can still put up with me. »

« Mate, you're the only one who sticks up for me when Smith's getting mad. The other guys, they only love me when I'm pulling pranks. Not when I'm the one saying out loud what they think in silence. »

« You're cute, Liam, but that won't bring my bird back. » Liam didn't enjoy being called cute again. That was the nickname his high schooler girlfriend gave him when he was 15. No one else has used this term to describe him since. Then his heart dropped at the mention of his friend's lost love. He really needs to cheer up...

« We don't need birds, we need balls and booze. »

« Balls... As in testicles? »

That playful grin... He planned that joke, obviously. He's doing a little better, or at least, he does a better job at hiding his heartbreak.

« You fucking prick! »

He gave the blonde a big slap on his back.

« Oh, ''balls'', you do love that word, isn't it? You should see your face right now! » Even his mad face was adorable, Damon conceded.

« I'm not a dog... » groaned Liam, visibly pouting and furrowing his eyebrows in a discontented expression. Damn, teasing him is just so hilarious.

« Sure, you're not a dog... For what's about gayness though... »

« If you want to meet a real poof, my brother is a big gay fish, » interrupted the brunette. « Gayer than I will never be! »

Something about the wording of this sentence made the blonde crack up. He can't recall the last time he had such a big laugh with anyone, not even with Graham. Still, his second-top could not picture what was so hilarious about this fact: « I ain't joking, he shagged that Boone fella, the one from Blackpool, right in front of my eyes! »

For the longest time, Damon had perceived Noel as some dude who compensated his short stature with an over-the-top laddish attitude. He admittedly acted like that sometimes, but it wasn't near as exaggerated as his teammate's behavior. He could not imagine this same man sharing kisses with another bloke.

« That's indeed gay. I don't think he has kissed as many dudes as you did, though... » He smirked, with the intent of instigating a response from the brunette. No misstep, as he was hurling. These ''serial man kisser'' talks had really traveled all around Great Britain, and he would still revoke it vehemently: « I'm not gay! I never go further than lips... »

« Then, if these are just lips as you say, why don't you snog me right now? »

For the captain, it was all a truth or dare game set up to annoy his lovely teammate. He didn't want to have sex or anything of that kind with him unless it was for a bet. He needs to instigate rivalries anywhere he goes, especially where it wasn't necessary. As for his second-top, he just needed a reason to kiss a cute boy. Usually, he would pin this on the liquor. The taste of the alcohol wasn't present for once. Quite a messy kiss, though. Damon has a washing machine mouth. It wasn't awful either. Actually, he would love some more, though he would never admit it out loud.

« You happy? »

« Nope. »pouted the youngest, visibly asking for more.

« C'mon... »

Before he could complete his sentence, the blonde had put his lips against his again. Does it qualify as cheating if it's only two kisses? This question had never crossed his mind before, obviously due to how drunk he was every time he did it. If his fiancee had to receive a penny whenever he's cheating on her, she'd be a billionaire by now. Does he still love her? Not really. She's a safe place, that's all she is. Not the person he is going to spend the rest of his existence with... Granted there's anyone able to put with him. Hell, even his own older brother rejects him now! And Damon... He's an amazing, dazzlingly attractive teammate, a shoulder to lean on, and not that bad of a kisser. Not a potential lover by any means. He enjoys kissing dudes as a way of demonstrating affection. You will just never see him on all fours or on his knees with another bloke. Even for someone as attractive as Damon.

**

Five minutes passed and neither of them felt like breaking the embrace. That was how touch-deprived they were. The brunette was stroking the eldest's luscious, soaked blonde hair, sometimes grabbing a few strands. The blonde gave him back by grabbing him by the butt, pressing his nails on the sensitive skin of his hips, making Liam panting. Finally, had Damon put an end to his unstoppable train of negative thoughts. In the midst of this messy era, he finally found someone who was going through the same troubles as him and felt able to share it with anyone. Liam cleared up his mind. He would confess his wrongdoings, and accept his fate if she asks him to pack his stuff. That's the only way he can redeem himself. Now, they could focus on playing well. The blonde eventually halted the kiss.

« That's a one-time thing, right? »

The brunette nods: « Of course it is. »

Suddenly, fear and worry could be distinguished in Damon's tone, as he begged the younger man to not tell a word to anyone. To what Liam responded: « If I fall, you're falling with me. »

The Mancunian could be witty when he intended to be. That's how he walked out of the swimming pool, drenched in Moorcombe House's late-night darkness.

**

His dazed smile faded gradually as he got closer to his room. If he woke Noel up, God knows how bad the dispute is going to be. He stood up on his tiptoes, before grabbing the doorknob, and held back his breath. Almost immediately, the light lit up in the room. His older brother was sitting on his bed, visibly waiting for his return, with that judging expression he despised so much.

« Done? »

« Whadd'ya want from me again? »

The eldest sat up, and sneered, keeping the volume down: « I can't sleep knowing that my lil brother who's a drug addict sneaked away from our room. »

« Wait a fucking minute, » he yelled out loud « You know about the coke? »

« Shhhhh, everybody knows, Liam, everyone. And I swear to god, if ya relapse, I'm gonna kick yer butt so hard that you might say goodbye to football for the rest of yer life, cause you won't be able to lift up yer damn legs anymore! »

Noel tried to sound scary despite the whispering, yet Liam smirked, realizing how tendentious the latter sentence could be.

« You're the one that gave me some for the first time! »

« C'mon, it was my biggest mistake, I regret it enough every day. »

There he goes. Liam furrows his eyebrows, already anticipating what his goddamn brother might claim next. Their disputes are so incredibly predictable.

« Enough regrets. That's all yer fault. »

He wasn't even angry. Actually he probably never remained so collected in the midst of a quarrel before. Simply stating the facts.

« I never forced you to snort that crap! »

Suddenly, it's harder for them to keep the volume low, as the accusations get increasingly more grievous.

« Who the fuck thinks that a thirteen-year-old doing coke is okay? »

The training facility might have been harsh on his brother's teenage self, but still, Noel was thankful he had been taken there before he could hang out with folks that could potentially have a bad influence on him. Luck he didn't have. He had to climb up from the amateur ranks and only signed a professional contract at age 22, while Liam already had a place assured in Manchester's higher ranks by 17. If he had been more serious about his training and less keen on reckless partying, his position amongst the team would've been much different.

« Liam, we grew up in the Madchester era for fuck's sake, everyone around us was into it! » He paused, noticing Liam's disbelief. These memories had been buried so long ago...

« Remember when we saw dem 7th graders smoking heroin during that Mondays' show! »

He had diffuse flashbacks from that scene, besides the fact that it occurred on his 18th birthday celebration. He saw the stall and the possessed look of the kids. Without a doubt, in this good year of 1995, they were all dead. Not like Noel's friends were any better, they just used less pernicious products. Some of their teammates were digging themselves deeper into the rabbit hole of doping every day. Back then, they simply turned a blind eye to these practices. Whether Noel used performance-enhancing drugs or not, his talents would still not find grace in his brother's eyes: « You'd be a better player if ya didn't lose yer time with these wankers. »

By himself, Noel would never admit his inferiority complex towards his younger brother's terrific abilities. Sports have their own bourgeoisie, his own dynasties, and in the later ones, comparisons can't be avoided. Too many players rode on the name of their most famous sibling despite having little talent on their own, causing a certain disdain towards those who came in after. Noel was more than decent, just not enough to be the shining star Liam was.

« At least I am a team player, » the latter frowned.

« You are constantly playing on your own! We're eleven on this field, Leeum. It's not you against the others plus the rival team, innit... »

No apparent reaction could be seen in Liam's face. Instead, he went back and forth between the drawers and the bathroom, preparing for an unnecessary shower, a pretext for Noel to finally leave him alone. Though, his brother probes his mind better than nobody else. Before the second-top can reach the doorknob, his sibling had already blocked the entrance as much as his short stature allowed him to. Liam let out a stroppy sigh. This fucker was trying to punish him by not allowing him a rest.

« Fuck off, Noel. »

« Are ya listening? »

This ironic hiss just further fueled the fire that was already burning him internally. To end this quarrel, a good old fistfight appeared to be the only efficient solution.

« Why would I, you're not Smith... »

« You don't even listen to this old bastard... There's only Bonehead, and that blonde poof. »

He sighed again, raising up his voice, not caring anymore about the deafening silence that was reigning over Moorcombe House until then.

« You snogged more dudes that this poof, for sure. »

The eldest's fist went to meet his face where his skull hollows, right below his left eye, knocking the tallest of the two against the bathtub. Miraculously enough, the shock did not break any of Liam's bones. His orbital cavity was now puffed with blood and painful tears, the little veins inside having popped up one by one. Therefore, his view was completely blurred. Liam was plunged into a deep state of panic at the idea he might not be able to play properly on the next day: « You fucking bastard! Can't see shite rite now! You're gonna pay me off someday! »

Noel barely responded, not even a grin on sight. He didn't seem affected in any manner, as if punching his brother was completely a safe behavior to his eyes. However, his satisfaction could be heard once he let go of the bathroom's doorstep: « You know what, fuck off Leeum. I'm done with ya. »

That was probably the most reassuring words the younger man hoped to hear on that night. Damon might not necessarily agree with every single of his actions, to his regret, but at least, he doesn't treat him like some kind of misbehaved puppy you should constantly watch over in fear that he'd trash out the room in your absence as his brother does. Liam stood up on his ankles and grabbed a compress from the vanity unit. Held with a patch and soaked in cold water, it would help him hide the evidence. Meanwhile, he poured himself a bath. From the moment he sat down in the bathtub, he hadn't been seen again until Noel roared « Wake up, you cunt ! », at precisely nine o'clock.


	6. Russian Doll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Liam & the rest of the Northern boys join their friend circle, Graham reflects on his long history with Damon. Justine regrets her decision.

Dear diary, why am I still writing this crap opening line, I'm not 13 anymore. I'm not 13 anymore yet I am still perpetually annoyed by Damon, and I can't let go of him. Due to our shared memories, these earnest memories of times where wine bottles hanging on a bough was to us the pinnacle of comedy, where sticking toothpaste onto our teammates' socks was the most amazing pastime, back when scribbling throbbing erections on the coach's locker was the highest form of rebellion. Somehow it feels like Damon has never grown out of these days. He's a people pleaser, he can't be beaten at satisfying everyone, often to the cost of his own credibility. Sadly, from the moment he can't fill up this herculean duty anymore, he's nothing more than an insecure mess who refuses to go out of his bed, and will likely drown his sorrows in the closest pub. Naturally, we don't have pubs at Moorcombe House, so he orders some Pernod bottles at the room service, which makes the situation a thousand times worse since he has no one to share his liquor with. Now that I'm sober... It's hard to resist the temptation.

During all these years, Damon acted as a brotherly figure towards me. He warned me about my girlfriends - and he has been right about each one of them, it's just too damn easy for a manipulative freak to take advantage of my sweetness, according to him -, he took me to the hippest shops of Camden, introduced me to his most inventive strategies, lend me a plethora of books on Brazilian heroes, the history of Chelsea, and even ceded me his signed picture of George Best, which he considered his most prized possession for most of his teen years. He claims I've been a major presence in his life, however, he's never thanked me for teaching him anything. There was some little flirting bullshit involved for a moment, where he eventually stole my first kiss and gave me a blowjob "just to see how it feels". Once again, he was performing it on me for his own improvement, hence why he will never acknowledge he's a terrible captain. Not like we have better options though. The Gallaghers are morons, Anderson is a foul-mouthed bitch, Cocker has retired, and the rest of the bunch just don't have as much charisma. Someone should tell the kids about how playing under the national colors is actually a curse. As if I gave a flying fuck about Saint-George's cross! As if Damon gave a shit about God save the Queen, he doesn't even sing the lyrics properly, you'll usually catch him mumbling « God save our very old queen, God save our sexy queen » since he admits she was very shaggable back when she ascended to the throne... I am definitely not ready for this coming global humiliation, but if that was what the universe has planned for our mortal souls, we can't change its ways. Hold on. That's clearly something Damon would say. His pseudo-mysticism is also getting on my nerves, although it's not the main focus. I'd love to talk to him, sadly, he's a matryoshka. You open him up once and there are a plethora of other personalities hidden inside, without any means for you to tell if this new persona will be welcoming or not. It isn't a risk I am willing to take, especially on these days. He's deeply attached to me, he just has strange ways to show his affection. Kind of like my cat, you know, Bastard. Got this name for a reason. Will rip your jeans open if he likes you. That's his way of reminding you of his presence. Damon does the same, except that instead of gorgeous claws, he has words that can rip your heart open. Now he's out of the shower, and if there's a fact about me I really don't want him to know about, it's for my diaries. Bye.

**

Damon's eyes felt incredibly heavy. Two hours of sleep, interrupted by an incredibly realistic nightmare where Justine showed up in Moorcombe to officially break up with him and then proceeded to slap him in the face. « Why did you cheat on me again ? ». This « again » was an even more freezing perspective than the idea of her being aware of his various extramarital ventures. Liam was far from being the only person he had even flirted with over the past years. His friendship with Graham rose a lot of questions amongst their peers, mainly from Alex, always here for juicy gossip. And he hadn't even told him all the details, though sincerely, no one can trust Alex to keep any secret. Looking back into it, they were basically dating at some point, back in their training camp days, where they weren't even allowed to go on dates. Random kisses at random times were their only remedy against loneliness. On the year Damon turned sixteen, their despotic coach was fired, and a strange hippie dude filled in. No need to mention that he didn't give a rat's ass about his protegees' personal business, as long as it didn't affect their performances on the field. To celebrate a win, he'd sneak his players into pubs and pay them a pint or two, smoking cigars over cigars, sometimes cutting them with weed. That's where the Golden Duo had their first encounter with the pretty green bud. Around the time Graham overcame his shyness and met his first girlfriend, Damon flickered around every pretty older girl that came along. He could not explain why he was so into college students, maybe for their experience, or because they had common interests. Until he met Justine, none of his relationships had serious implications. Nothing more than fun in his spare time, not a sign of commitment. Liam was the same type as these girls he used to chase. As pretty as he might be, he would obviously not last. Still, there was a connection between them that he didn't reach with any of these birds. They offered him instant gratification, while hanging with Liam brings him comfort, despite the fact that he's constantly trying to protect him.

« Dames, 'you ready for today ? »

In between two scoops of muesli, Graham took him out of his reverie. Their captain was so absorbed in his questionings that he didn't even touch his breakfast. Cold eggs are pretty nasty, isn't it? So absorbed his voice sounded like it came from a completely different galaxy:

« What's happening today... »

« The reserve team's coming over for today's game, dude, how did you forget about it? »

« Sorry Dave, I'm kind of tired as you can see... »

« Mate, tiredness, it's all in your head. Well, actually, everything's all ever in your head. Maybe we aren't even real people, you know, just some creation of a mad scientist somewhere in the Andromeda galaxy... »

While Dave was joking around with his metaphysical considerations, Liam finally appeared in the cafeteria. Looking clean for once. His heart missed a step. For some reason, he already wore sunglasses.

« Oh, the Gallaghers fought again... »

« Why do you say so ? »

« Why would Liam wear sunglasses if it wasn't for hiding a big fucking shiner... »

« Alex, shut the fuck up. » Damon sipped the end of his tea. « It's quite sunny already. » 

« You do love sticking up for this wanker, don't you... »

It's clearly not a day to disagree with Damon Albarn. He had little patience for anything, especially not for this snobbish creature who was heavily rumored to be hated by every single one of his former teammates for his constant demeaning remarks. He was a great chap though in their junior days. They were long gone now.

« Truthfully, I'd rather stick up for this wanker than for a posh asshole of your kind. » 

To these words, Alex fucked off to the other side of the room, groaning like a child who would've been reprimanded. No one in the room paid much attention to his complaints.

Graham unclenched his muscles in a soothed moan: « He'd be dead by my hands already if murdering someone was legal... »

« Truthfully, I hate speaking with, huh... ''People'' of his kind. » added their ginger-haired friend. « You could be talking about the Space Age and they'll find a way to blame Communism for the failure of Apollo 15. »

That's the moment Liam picked to bring his plate to the Londoner's table.

« Can I sit there? » Barely meeting anyone's eyes, especially not Damon's. Graham and Dave were quite welcoming. He took place next to Dave, facing their captain, who hadn't felt this embarrassed in ages. The girls he snogged during after game parties have the quality of vanishing once the sun rises. That man would stay in front of his eyes until the end of the week, and for a lot more occasions in the coming years. Fuck's sake...

« Bonehead and Guigsy are coming up, d'ya mind them? »

« Arthurs is a lovely lad ! » added Dave, in an attempt to convince Damon, who ostensibly avoided having « the talk » with the overwhelmingly adorable boy in front of them. And the pair did come in at the same time, emerging from the same room, Guigsy seemingly dead inside, his eyeballs eroded by dark trenches, suggesting a long, sleepless night.

« Liam, we should switch rooms, can't take it anymore... »

« What the feck's going on... »

« He's snoring. »

« Dude, I'm not going to Noel's, not even for one million pounds! »

« I'm the one who'll take Liam's place if it suits you, but please, I beg you to not ever let me sleep with that fucking steam engine ever again ! »

« Nah mate, it's cool. Noel's nothing more than a grumpy old bastard. »

Graham and Dave clearly weren't as intimate with Liam as their old friend was. The Gallagher family dynamics flew over their heads, mostly over Graham's: « Isn't he your brother though... »

« He can choke,» hissed the newcomer. « Not like it's going to make a huge difference... »

Bonehead seemingly had an epiphany, and called the three Londoners out: « You guys only have sisters, right? »

The whole trio nodded in unison.

« Well, of course, you can't get it,» admitted Bonehead. «Your sister can't become your rival, but with your bro, it starts from the very moment you come onto this world. »

**

Justine gave a quick glance to the indoor mirror, watching the distance between her car and the gas station elongating. She was admittedly a lot less familiar with the southwestern area of England. Not much potential. Not so many inhabitants. Pretty remote. A perfect place to set up a training camp for the national football team, that being said. Very few journalists were allowed to take pictures, and the location wasn't even officially disclosed. She learned about it thanks to Jamie, when she went picking up the cat. The long talk she had with Jamie. Damon had been quite much of a jerk to him the last time they met up. Neither of them thought it was the same man they loved so much.

« You summoned Jane to not tell anyone about your whereabouts, don't you? »

«Nope, she genuinely had no idea. »

«I hope you weren't frolicking with some sexy Brazilian newcomer... Oh, Leonardo... Please brutalize my ass! Art-decorate my pussy! »

« Shut up Jamie... It was just a secret meet-up with the owner of a football team, but I am not even supposed to tell you about it. »

It was the truth. The Russian oligarch who had currently taken over Tottenham had some grandiose delusions and wanted to erect a new stadium in his name. He knew about Justine from that infamous Brighton gala, where she escorted her boyfriend, in hopes to meet at least one person who can recognize how groundbreaking the Bauhaus were. And she happened to master Tolstoi's language, thanks to her mom's origins. Of course, due to her partner playing for a rival team, he wanted to keep the project unofficial, as long as it could be.

« Sure, Jus. That's why you gave him the silent treatment too? »

Justine took another sip of beer. She didn't remember the taste of it is so bitter.

« Nope, his boasting was just unbearable. Bet you endured it when he entrusted you with Benjamin? »

The furry black ball instantly reacted to being mentioned. The thirteen-year-old cat was exceptionally clever. As Justine told his name, he climbed over her lap and snuggled around her slightly exposed belly.

« Oh yes, he did. I tried to call him out on his bullshit, and when I did, he simply fucked away. »

« It's like raising a kid. Sucks that I never wanted any... »

« Do you still want to be with Damon? »

Long silence. She had to state the obvious. How can anyone throw four years' worth of memories out of the window?

« Not in the current state of things, definitely. »

Perhaps she had been too categoric. Perhaps she decided it too quickly. Perhaps she wasn't being precise enough. Or maybe, this is just the kind of news you don't deliver on the phone. She had to see his face again, and she could not wait anymore. In one week, she had to be in Paris for a fair. She wouldn't be able to see him for two weeks. His trembling voice on the phone, his foggy memory gave her hints that he was losing sleep, she just knew him that well. It's mental torture she had to put an end on, even though he's the one who inflicted it on himself. So she used her day-offs, took her car, and drove 300 miles.

**

Liam was sitting on the porch with his Walkman and his Lucky Strikes. He could have thought of a more inconspicuous spot, right. That wasn't his most brilliant idea. Honestly though, what could happen to him? At best, he'd be spotted smoking by the gardeners. Nothing dreadful. They didn't even have a coach anymore. Later on, they would play against the youngins, surely to get humiliated, and this whole shitshow would probably end. All the mistakes, all the fouls he was responsible for at the latest warm-up... He rarely was bothered about his image or his performances. He knew better than anyone what he was capable of, and that was clearly not a performance of his level. What could be done about it without a guide? 

Holding the fine fag with one hand, pushing the buttons of his play with the other, as he wasn't exactly in a Yellow Submarine mood. Yep, Eleanor Rigby might be more suited to one of these moody gray days of summer. A black Volkswagen cabriolet parked in front of the alley, right under the eldest oak tree. Panicked, Liam hid his pack under his parka, before landing his cigarette onto the granite railing. If this happened to be their new coach, that would be the worst first impression possible. Then, a tall silhouette emerged out of the right doorframe. Short black hair, a large leather perfecto, and elegant suede boots. Oh, that's a bird. She wasn't his type. He was into slightly older, traditionally feminine women. Nonetheless, a bird is a bird, and he hadn't slept with anyone in three weeks. It's better to be addicted to attention than it is to be into coke. She spent a few minutes inspecting the map, fearing she would lose her way in this massive estate. Or maybe it was just to find details on the place's history, who built it, you know, this kind of nerdy facts that only architects are interested in. Then finally, she walked up the stairs, seeing in this watered-down Mod a potential ally.

« Hey. »

She had seen his face in magazines before, that was this Gallagher lad, the one from Manchester City. He seemed even shorter in real life, this oversized parka didn't help in any way.

« What is a pretty lassie like ya doing out there? »

Hard for her to not laugh here. Damon approached her for the first time in a similar manner. The rest of the evening made English football history: Brett intercepted them, Damon picked a fight with him, he did not respond and therefore earned a reputation of cowardice. Two months later, Justine caught Brett in a bed with this prostitute that was obviously too young to be there. She left home almost immediately and finally gave an answer to Damon's increasingly weirder voice messages. At one point, he was pretending to be Oscar Niemeyer, likely the only living architect he had ever heard about, faking a Portuguese accent and the coarse voice of an old man. Poor boy tried his best, as his slight lisp was a dead giveaway of his identity. Still, right after their call ended, she showed up in his flat with two suitcases and her ongoing projects in her arms, and they've never left each other since. Justine's relationship with Damon might've been decaying at the time, she still wasn't desperate enough to respond at the first lame pick-up line she was told. As a result, she gave the small man the most laconic answer possible:

« I'm looking for my partner. »

Liam sighed, visibly pained.

« Partners are worthless. Leave him be... »

What a strange method, thought Justine to herself, unless he was really being serious, then, this fella has some emotional issues.

« What are you trying to do? »

« I dunno, 'just think that marriage and all that crap sucks. »

She would clearly not tell him otherwise, as she has always deemed marriage as a patriarchal institution made to bound women to their condition of child-bearers and caretakers. Sex alone is awesome, no need for the nuisance that comes with it. And sex with Damon could be absolutely insane at times when he's not too absorbed in his recent achievements – or sozzled with Pernod – and is able to lift his boner up.

« So, you won't help me find my boyfriend? » His eyes were igniting with a sudden fire of desire.

« Oh, I'm sure I'm hotter than him m'lady. »

Honestly, this man acts like a lost puppy. He clings to anyone and won't let them go until he's fed with a juicy piece of pussy. At least, that's how Justine perceived him. She put a sudden end to his serenade:

« Damon, are you familiar with him? »

No. Fucking. Way. The Justine was in Moorcombe. What if she learned about them kissing? What was she planning? Was their break already over? Too many questions were racing in his head at once, running into each other like Formula One cars.

« I... Hum... Well, yes, I am. »

Oh, girl, they're far more than this. Of course, she should never know about that. « Perhaps you mind indicate me where he is right now? »

« Uh... In his room, number 13, on the second floor... » She had already left. He had no time to mention Graham's presence. Maybe it was this obvious.

**

Being alone, or, should I say, alongside your brother-from-another-womb, is becoming a rare occasion these days. They might've gotten rid of Alex for today, Dave's still around, and now you could add up a bunch of jaded northerners looking for a new leader figure. Once they're on the field, the ball is all that should matter. No time for chit-chats and gossipings, let alone heartfelt conversations. Graham seized the occasion by making them two cups of tea. Perfect timing to bring up the subject of their new friends. He didn't feel exactly welcomed by them. Damon deemed he was overanalyzing the situation, as he often does. Sadly, this didn't convince his nearsighted fella:

« Liam is aggressive... At any time he's gonna grab me by the throat.. »

The blond brushed his assumptions off with a big laugh.

« Liam is nothing scary, mate, he's just like your cat ! »

« What does Bastard have to do with it? »

Yep, Bastard truly was his cat's name. For the record, Graham hated wearing bow ties, but as a part of his team's sponsoring plan, every player in Tottenham was given these items for free. He gave a few away to his new meowing friend and dressed him up with those whenever he had a guest in. The cat then paraded around the visitors with a smug look, before hissing at them and running away at the other side of the flat. Justine's cat is much cuter... Frankly speaking, it's nothing more than a jaded old man who doesn't give a shit about anything that isn't food, or his owner.

« Your cat hisses at strangers, but once you give him a good pet, you can do whatever you want with him. »

« Wait a minute. Do I have to pet Liam? »

Graham is just so naive you can't tell if he gets your joke or not.

« That's an image, Gra... »

« How did you "pet" him, then? »

Damon thought it wasn't a great idea to slip out every detail of their passionate fondling night, even to his closest mate. He had to make shit up: « Cigarettes and some addiction advice. »

« These clearly don't match together, Dames »

He can't lie, he's a terrible liar, he despises even the act of lying. The masks are off now. He sighed:

« Okay, we accidentally snogged the other night, that was only for a bit though. »

« Oh, not again... »

Graham had yet another proof that he wasn't the only man Damon had ever shared intimacy with. Once he was drunk, he would often turn to Alex. Dave was desperately straight and a father of two, he was out of the equation for a while, except when Graham needs him to put their pack leader to bed after he crossed the line (generally drawn at asking a random bloke on the toilets if he could "suck his dick"). There was obviously something going on with Jamie, although he and Graham were then engaged in a sort of Cold War since the journalist had started going out with Jane, one of the middle-top's ex-girlfriends. So, his knowledge of his rival and his best friend's relationship was based on hearsays. Oh, and that time where they stumbled upon Brett's crew in a legendary venue in London, and Damon immediately grabbed Gilbert and gave him a French kiss. That was a few months before the latter came out as gay, causing much media uproar. As you can imagine, Brett was enraging that night. Don't you dare touch his friends, even more, when you have a record of stealing his partners? The worse thing might be that Damon did this on purpose just to infuriate him, but Graham wasn't aware.

« Come on, it won't go any further, no need for his dick up my... »

Someone knocked at the door. Graham, seemingly distraught by the news, was categoric: « Must be Dave. »

Unless their comrade had dyed his hair black and grew a few centimeters in two hours, that was definitely not him. The floppy fringe, the Mickey T-shirt, the Chanel fragrance, that could only be one person, and her presence here wasn't good news to anyone:

« Hello Graham, can I talk to Dames? »


	7. End of the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon and Liam have to face once for all their inner demons.
> 
> (TW for homophobic language, vomit, physical violence, and panic attacks)

_“Now you talk to yourself_

_And you wonder why nothing ever changes_

_How you're gonna fall so far so fast_

_Who you gonna blame this on_

_I don't care anymore in the morning_

_When the birds start bleeding now_

_And it's all the same”_

**

He saw it coming, didn’t he? The lucid dreams strike again. Graham has deserted their room, claiming he is going to check on Alex, as if he cared about the wellbeing of this Tesco’s discount of a Victorian dandy. He is leaving him alone to face his worst nightmare, losing the love of his life.

“How are you doing…”

It does not make any sense to ask such questions when your interlocutor is slouching on the nearest wall, his legs crossed on the bed, his eyes circled by deep purple chasms, his gaze seemingly lost into the abysmal void, and his mouth failing to form intelligible words. He is hitting rock bottom, the pool’s bottom.

“Haven’t slept in three days, thank you.”

Justine noticed that he did not look this ravaged even when he was experimenting with awful drawbacks from reducing his Concerta levels. Pretty telling. And he was definitely targeting her with the sneering tone he used.

“Look, Dames, I am so sorry for what happened. I wish I could have told you, but the thing is, you don’t even let me open the mouth, so…”

“Whatever,” sneered the blonde. “You were about to tell me the bad news.”

He swiveled from left to right until collapsing on his pillow, not even facing Justine anymore. A behavior you would expect from a kid that is getting reprimanded by his mom. Justine never wanted children, let alone a man-child. Her decision felt a lot clearer.

“Damon, I’m sorry, we’re not going anywhere together.”

He retorted, not showing a sign of emotion: “You’re not going anywhere with me, you mean. You can’t use me as you wish…”

“What the hell are you insinuating here?”

She was slowly losing temper, and rightfully so. Damon was only about mind games and gaslighting to not assume his responsibilities. Whether you are his lover, his best friend, or a complete stranger doesn’t matter. Personal attacks make the best defense, and this adage functions perfectly inside and outside the field: “That’s how posh wankers of your type see people, don’t you think… Lovely tissues you can throw out once they gave you all the revenue you need…”

“You never gave me anything besides unfulfilling sex and massive headaches.”

He turns around, seemingly hurt. He breathes heavily, then lays nonchalantly on the bed.

“This is why you meet up with that fucking crow while I’m not around?”

She tries to remain calm and collected, even though it is getting harder and harder. His childlike demeanor disgusts her, at this point. Pure manipulation. He will not get her so easily this time. She always wins. He loves her too much.

“Brett is nothing more than a friend now, I’m too old for his taste!”

“Sure, a very good friend that can hold his dick up for more than three minutes…”

All about himself, every subject can be switched to revolve around himself and his insecurities. It is a game you should never play with Justine: she is a very observant type and can turn that against you at the speed of light.

“While we’re at it, don’t you have some kind of sexual business with your mates as well?”

He plays his favorite game. The clueless idiot. He often does that on the field. Looks on the left when he is about to pass on the right, tricks his rival into following him on the opposite side. He can be so terribly manipulative.

“I can’t see what you mean here…”

“Pinning down these hickeys on Graham… You really thought I would never notice this?”

Up against the wall, Damon was stuck in a dead-end situation. Either he lied and said it was a girl, showing off his infidelities. Either he kept on telling the truth and she would not believe him. Or worse. Could Justine be homophobic? After all, she came from an orthodox Jewish background where homosexuality was barely discussed. Then at the same time, she collected Pirelli calendars and had a certain penchant for lesbian porn. Would that stop her from calling him a poof in a fit of rage?

He could picture himself the head on a toilet bowl, held down against his will by the hands, nearly suffocating, while a bunch of older skinheads was kicking him in the butt.

“Don’t go too close of his hole, he might like it!” shrieked the muscular one, holding back his two guard dogs, before one of them allowed him to take a breath. Their leader took a knee, coming closer to his bruised face, contemplating for a second the blood flooding out of his nostrils and left eyebrow. It was not the first time Damon had been involved in a fight, though he had rarely been beaten up so terribly. There was no chance he could escape a trip at the ER and at least two weeks out of the field. He held back his tears while the muscular skinhead kept on torturing him.

“You like it, don’t you, fucking poof?”

The small one flings his upper body down the ground, and they were all throwing their feet at him. He didn’t wince, not a moan of pain coming out of his mouth, just swallowing the metallic taste of the red liquid that was now falling over his tongue. The skinheads left the stall, seemingly annoyed at their victim’s absence of reaction, closing the door of the toilet and switching off the lights behind them.

“Don’t you dare to win against Richie’s team ever again... Or else, we’re gonna scalp your tiny faggot head and shove it through your butt. Gotcha?”

It took him a few months before being able to play again at his usual level, despite his parent’s cheers. He avoided Graham, just to avoid the rumors getting more insistent. He wandered alone at the school’s cafeteria during lunch, becoming a hollow shell of the sociable and chatty pupil he used to be. After a few weeks, Graham showed up at his house with the resolution of finding out why he let him down so suddenly. He didn't come alone: his completed Panini album of the 1982 World Cup and a The Selecter vinyl could be found in his backpack, along with homemade cookies his mom baked for the Albarns. He had also planned to give him an Adam and The Ants album, which his friend ultimately turned down.

“I’m sorry Graham, it’s too gay for me.” he chuckled, extremely embarrassed.

They sat in Damon’s bed and pulled out a card game. Pauline Black was singing about her loved one who turns the radio on. In between two games, they slurped lemonade and made fun of their coach, or their teachers, until Graham divulged why he was there: “Clapton wants you back, by the way. There are some guys from London who are coming to select new players next month.”

He thought of his bullies. He will never have to face them again if he leaves for London. Remobilized, he started training seriously again. He and Graham were picked and left their small high school for a gigantic boarding institute in Kensington. Coincidentally, Justine was a student in a neighboring elite school, and yet, their first encounter only happened five years before, during a Cancer Research gala, where she was doing her first official appearance as Brett’s girlfriend.

They spent the evening bumping at each other at the table reserved for salad sandwiches, as they were the sole vegetarians present on that night. Damon was rude, angered by an uneventful meeting with Chelsea’s coach. He sneaked a few triangles away from Justine without any apologies, munching it loudly next to the closest window. Brett had completely forgotten about her existence. He, Butler, and Codling were seated close to the main stage, taking the piss out of the rich investors and has-been athletes who passed by. She had no business being here. At ten ‘o’clock, she grabbed the plateau, half-emptied of its delicacies, and brought it to the cherubic-looking blonde, that was still slouching on the wall.

“Aren’t you feeling a little alone tonight?”

“Mmmph, fuck off.” And he devoured yet another sandwich.

Justine could have left at this very moment. She stayed, amazed at how this little brat could have been invited to this prestigious gala.

“Guess this is your way of thanking people…”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m Justine, Anderson’s fiancée.” She then pointed to Brett, who was posing ostensibly on his chair, showing off the leather jeans his girlfriend had recently paid for him. Despite his style pushed to the nines, Anderson hailed from a working-class background; most of his earnings went to his parent’s brand-new house in Dartmoor. The first home they had ever owned. He relied a lot on Justine’s trust fund to keep his lavish lifestyle afloat.

“Wow. _That_ fella’s into pussy?”

“Yes, we own a cat together. I mean, it’s my cat, its name is Benjamin.”

“Cool.” Munch. “Cats are great.” Munch. “I like dogs too, don’t get me wrong,” Munch. “But they’re too dependent, and a professional football player can’t be arsed with anyone that depends on them.”

Finally, he puts down the small porcelain plate on the table’s corner, before stamping his mouth with the silky burgundy napkin he had kept in his blazer’s pocket all along. He was likely from a liberal background to behave like this while surrounded by Britain's richest charity donators, guessed Justine.

“I get that, I’m an architect, so I regularly move back and forth between here and the rest of the UK. Like, I was in Glasgow last week.”

“And you find time to meet up with Anderson in-between. That’s quite admirable…”

No, she did not. This is not something you can tell a random, albeit very cute, bloke in a charity gala when you are surrounded by British football’s most renowned names. Yet, five years later, she was having the same conversation with this same bloke in a hotel in the middle of nowhere. Why did she always have to fell for emotionally unavailable men? Was this a curse put over her cradle when she was an infant by an ill-intentioned witch? Even the harshest curses can be broken.

Present day, present time. Damon had collected his spirits. On this fateful evening, Graham was absent. The outcome of their encounter would have been so different if he had been there. He could have explained the specialties of their relationships with a lot more detail and a little more passion than him. 

“Actually, Graham and I used to be dating when we were teens.”

And there, Justine’s sarcastic laughter fills the room. How inappropriate this is.

“Oh, you must be kidding!”

“Excuse me?”

She is probing into his eyes, emphasizing the weight of her words: “Damon. You might be the only person in the world that’s completely oblivious to the fact that you like dudes.”

Gasp. She can see him punching holes in an unused tissue he had randomly left on his nightstand. The man will not get out of here before he admits his darkest secret.

“But, men or women, this doesn’t change anything. Like, it’s fine if you’re shagging other people, but we were meant to tell each other, not keep it a secret.”

Oh. So, it was not about the dick, just the act of fucking random people behind her back. Could have been far worse. He lets out a sigh of relief.

“I think I haven’t told you about what happened to me in high school…”

**

Liam has turned into a guard dog. Still sitting on the same porch, monitoring every single move that can be spotted around the park and the parking lot. There is nothing better to do. Bonehead, Guigsy, and Andy all went for a swim with Noel, which feels like a betrayal. His fellow northerners have invaded the recreation room, taking control over the snooker table… He admittedly sucks at the billiard game. He could go back to his room and get befuddled by the telly if only there was anything interesting broadcasted on a Friday afternoon. He is left strolling without a goal, exposing his hollowness to the bystanders… Granted there is any. His boredom is so intense that his fingers start to twitch. His restless right leg shakes up and down, desperate to kick in the closest object, whatever that is, even a small rock would be enough. He bites his nails one by one, then groans, then scans the entire area from left to right, and finally sighs. Time to move. He stands up. Complete darkness. A plethora of stars starts dancing over his head. His ears are buzzing, not the pleasant buzzing of an orgasm, the dooming buzzing of illness. His stomach is dancing the waltz, along with his shaky breathing. Before he can grip the railing of the stairs, his lunch can be found on the floor. Well, it is far from being the first time he has caught a food intoxication. He runs to the first toilet to wash his mouth. It seems like the nauseating feelings have vanished. On the other hand, his tinnitus remains there, and he keeps staggering around. Suspicious. This bathroom, drenched in blinding white lightning, has nothing to do with the dirty nightclub stalls where he used to do coke with prostitutes. There it comes, like a flash. He needs coke. He is craving cocaine and his whole body acts like this to remind him. Yeah, but he is currently stuck in the deep countryside, he cannot ask anyone to bring it to him at the risk of outing his addiction, and not even his closest friends would risk their careers for him. This is a low, the lowest he has sunk into in years.

He crawls out of the room with a devastated look on his face, barely recognizable. Reach his room, crawl into the blankets, and not going out before his illness goes away, here is his only solution. Walking is an adventure when your own feet trip over a waxed floor. He slips several times; his view gets sometimes blurry. When finally, the room’s door opens, he thanks the lord that no one was around to watch him. How embarrassing it would be. He collapses on his bed, hardly able to make a move, his muscles still stiffed and cramped from the crisis. Only the coke – or its lack, thereof - lives on his mind. If only he had someone to help him, but he is nothing more than a bloody tosser who fell out with his own brother and hid the truth from his closest friends for months. Therefore, he grabs the phone and rings the only person he imagines may help him in such a crucial moment.

“Albarn, I need your help.”

**

Damon’s voice got suddenly hoarser, blocked by tears. He did not brush away any details of the bullying he endured as a teen. Regardless of his success, the weight of the years can not erase the lasting pain. Even Justine has trouble hiding how uncomfortable she is.

“I am sorry you went through all of this. But why you didn’t tell me earlier?”

He nods: “Shame, I guess.”

“There’s no shame. It’s not your fault.”

She gives him a slow, passionate kiss like they had not shared in years. He has never needed more than her arms around him. It seems like their lack of proximity is now gone. Until this day, Justine was missing a piece of her boyfriend that was crucial to understanding his behavior and personality. He was an unstable and insecure child who needs constant validation he did not receive from his peers when he was younger. They tenderly embraced each other, until the phone rang.

“Excuse me, babe…”

Liam’s voice could be heard from the speakers, begging him for help. It was not the usual Liam. He sounded worried, scared, and completely helpless. Immediately, Damon started to worry. He let go of Justine, who reciprocated his sudden concern.

“Gallagher?”

“Yes, it’s me…” he exhaled, noticeably in pain. “Do you have some pills?”

Damon was facing a dilemma. Sharing an intimate moment with his girlfriend who often complains he is never here for her or helping a friend who desperately needs him.

“Look, Liam, my girlfriend’s here and…” He interrupts him, showing his complete state of panic. Damon has no other choice than let him speak: “Dude, it’s crappy… I threw up and I can’t stand up, I need my fucking coke.”

His captain sighs. That is his duty as team leader to help his teammates, no matter how ill-timed their requests can be.

“Jus, can you hang on a minute?”

“What’s going on, this time?”

Leaving her right now, right after divulgating his oldest secret, is incredibly hard. All he wants is to hug her and never leave his bed again. But he wasn’t sent to Moorcombe for this. He was hired as a leader, and a leader should show the way, care for his teammates, and get ready to make sacrifices for them.

He gets up: “I need to be a decent captain at least once in my life, one of my guys is not feeling well.”

**

_“I was faced to the wall_

_With the mirror crashing down_

_And you stood so tall_

_But you fall and you're never gonna get back up_

_You didn't want it enough_

_Am I central now, am I central now_

_I was central how”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch, not the happiest chapter, we're edging the "angst" territory. I recently got through a breakup that partially inspired Justine and Damon's argument. The next chapter will be a little fluffier.
> 
> The song lyrics are taken from End of the Line by Sleigh Bells.


End file.
